The Greenwood Tree
by Soignante
Summary: Sweet and slow, from Erik's point of view. E/C, naturally. Complete.
1. In the Beginning

There is a great story that starts, "In the beginning, there was only darkness." And if love be light, my beginning was dark indeed. Do not blame my mother. That would be wrong. Instead, put yourself in her place; young, in love, full of hope, and pregnant with your first child. And then you bear that child, and instead of a delightful squalling infant, you find yourself facing a miniature version of The Thing Under the Bed. I do not question why she did what she did, though I hated her for long years.

Unlike that first darkness, which reputedly was dispelled in just a day, my darkness lasted decades, and the blackness only deepened from year to year. I was born a monster in form. Over time I became a monster in fact; a thing of great and abiding horror. I was no more than a junkyard dog, abused and degraded into viciousness - then aged into uselessness. I could, and would, have remained such until I met some quaintly horrific fate.

But that is not the story you came to hear, and I will not bore (or disgust) you with the details of my vile history. Only know that when light first glinted at the corners of my life, I was a miserable thing crawling about the dank holes of the great edifice I'd designed, wallowing in self-loathing and regret; a waste of bones and gristle, waiting for death. My only pleasures lay in drawing upon the power I once wielded to frighten simple-minded hirelings and in listening to the music.

This story begins not only in darkness, but in silence. It was late in the night, creeping slowly towards morning. My theatre was empty and lifeless, though I could still feel the vibrations of the music that had rung here only hours before. That is why I emerged from my depths – I had to feel the music and breathe the air so recently consecrated by the sublime performance of my orchestra. Mercifully, there was no opera that evening, only a symphony celebrating Mozart's death and the Requiem he left uncompleted. The singers were guests, true talents from overseas; they did not offend my ears in the least.

In this late hour, the musicians were gone and the house deserted. I was perched high in the catwalks, just breathing, when the door cracked open and spilled the faint yellow light of the hallway down the aisle. A dreadful din interrupted my meditations – I reflected that the janitor was forcing his way through the door with much less facility than usual. Looking down, I was surprised to see a _woman_ struggling with the cleaning cart. She was of medium height and build, with thick mouse-colored hair neatly pinioned beneath a kerchief.

Now, understand that I am a creature of custom. Frank had been cleaning my theatre for a decade; I'd grown used to him. He was biddable. One or two scares followed by explicit instructions had always been sufficient to bring him about to my way of doing things. He never spoke, never questioned my orders; he just cleaned and left. His sudden disappearance, followed by the equally sudden appearance of this woman shook my treasured calm.

She flicked on the lights and looked about slowly, as though uncertain as to where she should begin. Frank had had the same look when he first entered the enormous space. Heaving a sigh, she began systematically sweeping the rows from end to end. She took great care in her work; I was pleased. Then she came to the orchestra pit and my pleasure quickly melted into unease. She had shoved her cart into the aisle behind her and stood eying the Bosendorfer grand piano with a desire I could see even from my seat nearly 25 feet above.

I watched her come close to the precious instrument and reach for it. She paused, wiped her hands on the pleated khaki pants that made up half her uniform, and then lifted the fall-board. Heresy! I nearly descended upon her in a fury. Had I been any closer to the ground, she might not have lived out the hour. Fortunately for both of us, I was in no position to do anything but stare in outrage. She gave herself only one note – A above middle C – and gently closed the fall-board.

She returned to her cart and her cleaning, but now she was singing to herself. The tune was a contemporary adaptation of a Shakespearean passage; simple, but undeniably beautiful.

"_Under the greenwood tree, who loves to lie with me," _she sang, sliding her polishing rag along the proscenium stage's edge, "_and tune his merry note unto the sweet bird's throat…"_

Do not misunderstand; her voice then was not nearly what it is now. It was a shadow, a whisper, a mere dream of what it was to become. But even in its raw, untutored state, it called to me. I heard its promise and I knew that I must be the one to draw it out.

"_Come hither, come hither, come hither!" _I took these words as an invitation, and the next as a promise, "_Here shall he see no enemy, but for winter and rough weather…"_

She was done cleaning. Completely innocent of my presence, she pushed her cart up the aisle and wrestled it out the door with little fanfare. I watched her go, fighting an urge to run after her. What a disaster that would have been! As though any woman alone in this huge, shadowy, echoing place would appreciate a masked man coming upon her unawares!

Again, my inconvenient seat saved us. I had to make a plan, I realized. That such an instrument should come attached to a woman was a cruel joke. I could not buy it; it had to become mine by other means. She would have to come to trust me, sight unseen, enough to let me guide her and teach her. _She_ had to become mine so that I could possess that voice.

At the time, it was only her voice that possessed me.


	2. An Invitation

Trust.

Fear was my workhorse, anger my constant companion. Contempt, I knew. I could inspire paroxysms of horror with a word. But trust? I hardly knew the meaning of the word. I had no use for it; certainly it had never done anything for me. Fear, by comparison, was such a _useful_ thing. It could ensure compliance, and even a doglike loyalty. I had wielded fear and intimidation like magic wands to transform an unknown theatre into a world-renowned home of the musical arts.

But intimidation would do no good here. What sort of sounds come from a throat tight with terror? Squeaks, screeches, rasps, and stutters; these were not what I wanted from my instrument. She had to be willing, had to want my instruction. She had to accept an invisible hand as guide and master.

For the thousandth time, I scanned the note I planned to leave on the piano.

**_Christine, _**

**_I have decided to permit you to continue working in my theatre. I will also permit you the use of our Bosendorfer Grand, which you seemed to enjoy last night. There is a condition, and this condition is immutable: cease your caterwauling and learn to use your fine instrument properly. _**

**_This is a set of simple vocal exercises. Learn them. Tomorrow night, you shall have your first lesson as soon as you have finished your work. I suggest you hurry. _**

_**At your peril you choose to ignore my wishes. **_

_**Signed, **_

**_The Opera Ghost. _**

Perhaps I'd used a little fear – but only to assure her compliance. Had I not also been kind? Was I not offering her for free what I had had to sneak and steal to get? The promised vocal exercises were not generics copied from some lesson-book. I'd used my favorite red ink and my best staff paper. They were beautiful exercises, perfect for her stage of vocal ability, her range, her delicate soubrette soprano tone. In writing them, I'd thought of no one but her.

I sealed the envelope with my finest sealing wax and placed it on the piano atop the sheet music. I wanted to be there to see her reaction to my generous offer, but most places in the theatre bore too great a risk of discovery. Once again I found myself ascending to the catwalks. There, I waited with a feeling of ineffable satisfaction for this little adventure to unfold.

She did not give me a long wait. The boom and clatter of her cart preceded her arrival. Finally, the object of my interest herself stood below me, clad in the same dreadful uniform she'd worn the day before. Her progress was dreadfully slow as she cleaned row after row. The same careful methodicalness that had pleased me the night before now pained me.

My heart pounded, my breath was short. I felt my hands slick with cold sweat inside my gloves. When was the last time I had tasted excitement? I had not felt this way since I saw the cornerstone laid on the foundation of my theatre; now I was certain another great thing was about to come into being. And again, I would be the genius behind the structure. Never mind excitement; how long had it been since I'd felt _purpose?_

There had been a class of high school students in audience tonight. Apparently someone thought it necessary to introduce 'culture' to the plebeian masses. I could have wrung each of their pimply, self-absorbed necks for the mess they had left. Would she even make it to the orchestra pit? Here, she scraped chewing gum. There, she applied a rag and some cleanser to a bit of filth. Without a hint of regard for the sacredness of the music, they had chewed and wallowed and profaned my space.

_I must remember_, I thought, _to forbid the managers' bringing in any more brats. _

Finally she wiped the last seat clean. I watched, holding my breath, as she walked to the piano. Her face opened in curiosity when she spied my little present. There! She picked it up and stared in astonishment at her name on the envelope.

_Open it…open it…_ The thought rebounded in my head, echoing and repeating.

Slowly, slowly, she turned the envelope over and slid a finger under the flap. Her eyes grew as she read my message, then narrowed in suspicion. She clutched the note as if to crumple it and I admit my heart may have stopped for a moment. If she crumpled that note, I would...

But the note remained in her hand - heald tightly, but unsullied. Instead, she looked around as if expecting to see the note's author lurking in every shadowed corner. Of course she saw nothing; the author was lurking above her head.

"Who's here?" she whispered. A moment later, she tried again, louder. Gone was the perfect tone of the night before. Remember what I said about a fear-constricted throat? "Who's here?"

Apparently the echoes of her own voice in the theatre's perfect silence were more than she could handle. Leaving her cart where it stood, she fled into the night. I was hardly worried. I'd seen her employee file and knew what sort of job history she had shadowing her chances of other employment.

I knew she'd be back. She'd left her cart, but _taken the sheet music_ before she ran.


	3. Unthinkable

I paced. I walked every secret passage I'd built. My head was full of the dream of a voice-to-be. I wondered about it. I pondered on it. I could think of nothing else. Had she ever taken care of it? Had anyone ever attempted to instruct it? I could hear evidence of frequent singing, but there was poor technique, insufficient breath support, tension where there should be none...the list of imperfections was daunting.

I'm sure my voice had once been the same, but I had quickly mastered it as soon as I learned that it was imperfect. This woman could not be a day under 25, and she had apparently taken no steps to correcting the situation. Of course, _I _knew how to teach a mature voice. In the pocket of my cloak I carried her first real piece of music. I was not worried by her age. I was worried about the complete lack of development I'd heard in her voice as she sang her little song. How had she come so long with so little technique?

Was it laziness?

If it were laziness, my project was doomed before it ever began. A lazy woman would never put in the effort needed to bring a voice to full flower. And her voice was no longer young – she would have to work harder and more carefully than a younger student. But her careful attention to the cleaning job belied any possibility of laziness.

Suddenly my feet stopped their endless trekking. A burst of adrenaline heated my gut and tingled in my limbs. Was it possible that she did not _realize_ her talent? Could it be that no one had told her of the treasure she possessed? Oh, but that was a rich thought! I was a prospector come upon an uncharted mountain filled with precious gems. The riches I discovered would be mine and mine alone until I chose to share them, and even then I would guard them closely.

Mid-afternoon passed and I had seen no moment of rest. I was certain she would return. Of course she would return. She was too poor, it would be impossible for her to find another job, she would be put out of her apartment before she could scrape enough together for rent. But the thought would not let loose its hold on the back of my mind. What if she did not return?

No. That was unthinkable. Completely beyond conception. She would come. She would be shy, perhaps even suspicious, but I would speak to her kindly and dispel all doubts. I would awe her with my voice, and lure her with music. If she love music at all, she would be unable to resist me.

By the time that night's rehearsal had ended and all my glorious musicians (and the mediocre vocalists) had gone home, I was giddy with lack of sleep and anticipation. Tonight would begin the greatest of my projects. The catwalks vibrated with the energy that crackled around me. Soon she would come through the door, and…

Soon she would come through the door…

Soon she _would come…_

In vain, I listened for the squeal of her cart and the bang of the door. The unthinkable was happening. I stormed up and down the catwalks, muttering epithets against all women and their inability to use a clock… But she was not merely late. The moon had set, the stars were fast fading - and she had not come. The Voice had not been drawn to its master. I was thwarted. I was also furious.

I wore myself out cursing Christine, my luck, and the gods for dangling such a gem before my eyes and then snatching it away. It was foolish of me to have been surprised. Some men lead a blessed life; I have always led a cursed one. What folly made me believe I could have this wonderful thing, the honor and the joy of training this voice? Constantly, I was reminded that I was unworthy of the smallest pleasures. My crimes had been too great. The rest of my pathetic life would be spent in penance.

Once the heat of anger had passed and the ashes of the fire had cooled, I set out to search the whole of the theatre. Maybe she was only avoiding the actual stage area for fear of some imagined monster – I was quite sure no one had told her of the _real _one. They dared not speak of me for fear their tongues might be found in one portion of the building and the rest in another. It was known to have happened.

My search led me through each hallway and in every room. I came at last to the administration offices. Saving them until the last moment was an act of self-preservation; management were often obliged to stay until the wee hours, working on paperwork, planning promotions and that sort of nonsense. Though the management and I were…acquainted…neither of us had any desire to experience the other. I communicated with them through notes, and they communicated with me through obedience.

It was my last hope, and my last hope was dashed. The building was empty. In defeated silence, I trudged to the cellar I called home. I sat down at my desk, found a piece of card-stock, and wrote this:

**_Dearest Poligny,_**

_**See to it that out next custodian is a mute.**_

_**Your Servant, **_

_**O.G.**_


	4. Voice meets Teacher

The following evening was to be Wagner. Four glorious hours of Wagner. And for the first time in more than a decade, I was going to miss watching it. No force on earth could have dragged me from my hole that night. I wanted nothing more than to sip sweet wine and contemplate the futility of my existence. I was in the mood for bitter melancholy, not heroic blasts from the brass section.

Of course, I had built this room with the theatre in mind. At the time I could not have imagined not wanting to hear the music. With the best materials I could scrape together, I'd built a special corridor with the sole purpose of conducting the beautiful sounds straight to my humble dwelling. Naturally, you are wondering why I did not simply hook up some microphones and speakers. So few people notice that music requires freedom to live. Something about it dies when it is trapped in wires and transmuted into electricity!

But I digress. I was saying that nothing could have dragged my worthless carcass into the open that night. I grudged every note that blared through my rooms. Instead of exhilaration at a nearly flawless performance, I merely felt relief when silence descended. Wretchedness was mine to enjoy in a dark and dismal silence. Rarely did I allow myself to _desire_ something; rarely was I disappointed.

I suppose a person could say I don't handle rejection well.

There is a danger in wallowing in misery. It tends to blind the eyes, stuff the ears and numb the mind. Who knows how long the strained sounds went on before they registered in my fogged brain. When I finally realized that there_ was _a sound to be heard, I stood ramrod straight.

Someone was singing in the theatre! Someone female!

Half convinced that I'd finally gone completely around the bend, I rose and donned my cloak, gloves, and hat. I intended to remain undetected, but that was no reason to allow myself to neglect matters of dress. Also, my garments were dress-black, which had the benefit of providing camouflage in the shadows.

Each step I took demanded a re-convincing of my frayed nerves that it was truly the Voice and not a trick of my vivid imagination. Once onstage, I stood in the flies and watched, entranced.

She had finished her cleaning; I could smell the cleanser and wood polish in the air. The lingering scent of exhaust told me that she had also vacuumed the runners in the aisles. I could see that some of her hair had escaped its bonds and was plastered to her forehead with sweat from her exertions.

She was halfway through the vocal exercises I had given her, and it was clear that she had put quite a bit of effort into practice. Not correctly, of course. She was feeding her breath from her chest and there was so much tension in her throat and face that every note was strained and rasped and slightly flat. Her posture was tight and guarded; her arms were crossed and resting on her diaphragm. But despite every flaw, every mistake, the sheer potential of her unearthly instrument shone through. To my ear at least, it shone through.

I could listen to no more. I gathered my wits and my courage and spoke in a powerful (yet kind) voice that I knew would seem to fill the room, coming from everywhere and nowhere. In my past, this ability to cast my voice had been a valuable professional asset. It still took pride in my peculiar talent.

"Stop, child. You'll do yourself harm." It was all I could think to say. I couldn't well say, "_You'll do _me_ harm" _and expect her to give anything else I said credence.

The effect on Christine was nothing short of amazing. Her Voice shut off as though cut with a knife. Her arms dropped and one hand flashed to her cart to retrieve a carefully hidden knife. It appeared to be a filet knife; long, slightly curved, and wickedly sharp. I mentally congratulated her on her choice. I had enjoyed the virtues of a fine filet knife in my younger days, on more than one occasion. It cut cleanly, easily and deeply with little effort on the part of its wielder.

"Who are you?" She spun in a tight circle, wisely keeping the cart nearby to shield one vulnerable side at all times. "_Where_ are you?"

"When you hold a knife, child, angle the blade back down your arm with the sharp side out and cut in a sweeping motion. Any half-witted brute could disarm you if you hold it as you are now…"

Ah, my first stumble. I had only meant to instruct, not to terrify, but she was trembling pitifully. I could see that she was struggling to keep her tenuous hold on the little weapon. I thought her brave. I had seen hardened men with less resolve who dissolved like sugar in warm water when faced with an invisible assailant.

"I am not here to harm you, Christine…"

"How do you know my _name?_" The poor thing was approaching hysterics. "What do you _want_ from me?"

There was the question I wanted to hear. "I want you to sing, Christine. I want to teach you."

I proclaimed this in the most comforting voice I could conceive. She merely stood there, clutching her knife and shaking, with wide eyes that glittered wetly in the dim running lights. Normally, I enjoyed seeing a person entirely cowed – it confirmed that I was real, that I was there. Now it only mocked my attempts to play the teacher. I began to feel a little annoyed.

This time when I spoke, I filled my voice with a low, crooning tone that masked my frustration well. "I shall grant you a moment to collect yourself, then we really must begin our lesson. The night wears on." I leaned back on a nearby flat, gratified to see a little of the tension leave her body. Her expression had altered, too. It had softened considerably as the tension left her mouth and eyes.

She took a deep breath, which I promptly interrupted.

"A common misconception, Christine, is that we breathe from our lungs." I smiled as I saw curiosity open her features – which I suddenly noticed were fair and fine. "The truth is that we breathe from the abdomen – the diaphragm, to be precise. Can you locate your diaphragm?"

Christine nodded slowly. The knife had found its way back onto the cart and her hands hung by her sides. The low croon was working. I was also nodding to myself; she was falling under my spell. She set one hand over her diaphragm.

"That is correct. Now, please try that breath again, but draw it from as deep in your abdomen as you can. Allow the air to fill your lungs, slowly, naturally." I could see that she was trying, but there was still tension that would resolve with time and practice. "Now allow the air to escape naturally. Do not attempt to push it out…simply relax your diaphragm."

But she was not relaxing her diaphragm. She was speaking.

"What if I don't want to take lessons from an invisible voice?" she asked in a calm, reasonable tone. Apparently I had relaxed her too much, too soon.

Drat.

"Pardon me?" It was truly all I could manage.

"I don't know who you are. I don't even know _where_ you are." She had placed her hands on her hips. "Why should I believe that you're not some evil stalker-guy? Why should I even…"

It was reasonable. I can admit that now. I could recognize that even then. The difficulty lay in that I had no answer for her. I _was_ an evil man. I _was_ a monster. And there was the mask. And what lay under the mask…

"You shouldn't," I hissed, my patience shot. "You should run home and hide under your bedcovers, _little girl._ I offer you a chance at greatness, an opportunity to sing like an Angel straight from the Celestial Chorus, but _never mind!_ You may have the Voice, but you haven't the character. So run along home now, and a good morning to you!"

I turned on my heel and stomped off, making no effort whatsoever to cover the sound of my footsteps. She'd never find the hidden door to my passageway, even if she searched for hours. I was about to slam said door behind me and forget this painful episode forever when I heard,

"Wait…"


	5. The First Lesson

Of course I stopped. Had I not, there would be no story to tell.

I stopped, but I did not turn back. You see, I have not been accustomed to the kindest treatment in my life. I could not imagine why she would ask me to stop, save to answer my tirade with a parting insult or two. I'd brought this on myself with my ill-conceived plan. It was _I_ who had disturbed _her_ world. I stood silent and waited to see what cruelties she could think of to spew at a "person" she had never seen.

"Are you…still there?" It seemed to me that her Voice was not cruel.

_I must be mistaken,_ I thought.

"Mister?"

Oh no. Not "_Mister." _ I had lived nearly 50 years without once having been called "Mister."

"I am still here." I was giving nothing away. My voice once again filled the room as I quickly moved to a different location. It would not do to be found.

"You honestly think I could sing…_really _sing?" Reluctant, hesitant…but interested!

"Why do you ask me?" I was cold iron. "I'm an evil stalker." I should have let that go, but it had stung terribly, being so close to an old truth.

Christine gave me no reply. She just stood, waiting, and I began to feel foolish and annoyed. How easily this cleaning-woman could wriggle under my skin!

"Yes," I said at last, exasperated. "I think you could 'really sing' – provided you are a diligent and obedient student. You are no longer young…"

"Gee, thanks." Sarcasm? She was brazen. Oddly, it did not further my annoyance. I continued as though she had not spoken.

"You are no longer young, and your voice will be more difficult to train." It was time for a final offer. "So, shall we have our lesson now, or shall I bid you 'good morning' again?"

She crossed her arms over her chest and nibbled the edge of her thumb. It was a position I would become accustomed to in time – it meant she was thinking seriously. Finally, she looked up and drew a deep breath from her abdomen, as she had been instructed.

"I'd like that, but I really have to have some name to call you. It's weird enough that you're hiding from me." She turned in a slow circle, just to make a point.

I considered for a moment. What should she call me? Not my real name; I was loath to give that stained information to her. My eyes rambled through the theatre and came to rest on the orchestra pit.

"You may call me Maestro." It was a fine name, I thought, for a teacher of my caliber. "Yes, that will do."

"Ok…" Her delicate eyebrow was lifted, and her mouth was twisted into a little smirk." "Maestro…"

In one of my few moment of wisdom, I did let that one pass. She was mocking me, true, but I was more interested in this first lesson. Respect would come, of _that_ I was most certain.

"Now tell me; why would a career waitress suddenly decide to come and slave all night cleaning a symphony hall?" I had my guess, but I wanted to hear it from her.

"Is this part of my lesson?" she quipped. Now it was my turn to stand silent. Two could use _that_ method of extracting information. It took a long minute, but she finally acceded an answer. "It was the fringe benefits. I can attend the symphony…or the opera…any night I wish, for free. I could never make that much money as a waitress. And how do you know I was a waitress?"

"Do you really love the symphony so much?" This was a pleasant revelation, indeed!

"Music is my _life._" Her sincerity touched my own love of the noblest art. "But how did you know…"

"Music is also my life. This is my theatre. I know everything – and everyone – that goes on here."

"I've never heard of an owner…" Oh, but _that_ was going in a direction I wished to avoid.

"I keep to myself. Now. Breathing."

And the lesson began. I taught her to breathe, taught her to stand, taught her about the apparatus of voice. There has never been a more serious student. Once she realized the merit of each lesson, she was quiet and full of deep concentration. We worked for nearly two hours, before I realized that I must release her or risk exhausting her. She had yet to sing a single note. That was good.

"That will do, Christine. Practice what you have learned here and I will expect you tomorrow night." Remembering the mental anguish I'd suffered lent an exceptionally stern tone to my words. "I will have no more absenteeism, like last night."

Her face creased with confusion. "But…but…Tuesdays are my night off!"


	6. First Light

Her night off?

In all my frantic searching, it had never occurred to me that the girl might not have had a shift that evening. I had even been right there in the administrative offices. I could have looked at a schedule. I plastered a disbelieving hand over my mask at my stupidity. That sort of oversight would have cost me my life in the old days.

"Last night was your night off?" I must have sounded as though I taken leave of my senses.

She nodded into the empty theatre and spoke as though to a small child. "Yes. Tuesdays and Sundays are my nights off."

"That's why you weren't here last night? You weren't just…too frightened to show up?" The words of a driveling idiot, I know, but the words of a vastly relieved driveling idiot.

"Oh, I was terrified; do you remember the part of the note about _'at my peril'?_ And mad. Did you really have to call my singing _caterwauling_?" Her hands had returned to her hips and I could see the delicate pink of blood infusing her cheeks. And what does "_Opera Ghost_" mean?"

"You will hear yourself one day, and wonder how you ever could have sung any other way. Opera Ghost is a…" I had to pause, to think what a normal person might say. "You might say it's my stage name."

"A stage name... Are you an actor?" She was interested - in me!

"Not in the traditional sense of the word...no. But I have been known to give a few good performances in my time." As with most of my jokes, I was the only one smiling.

"Well, just so you know, saying that a person sings like a male cat in heat does _not_ make a invitation to voice lessons. Neither do threats." She leaned against the railing of the orchestra pit, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"I shall take more care with my language in the future." It was the most diplomatic I knew how to be. The only politic alternative was to bid her a good morning and sneak softly away.

And I did not want that. Oh no, not at all. You sit there expecting me to help you understand…and I don't know how to explain. Let me try to be plain; it is the best way, I think.

Our conversation might not sound enthralling to you, but it was the first actual casual conversation I had ever held with another person in the whole of my life. Oh, I know – there is no way you could possibly understand what that is like. But it was like the first glint of sunrise on a frosted window pane. She spoke to me like a person, not a monster, and it was sweet - so sweet.

"I don't caterwaul," she said, sternly. "I may not be a professional singer, but I don't caterwaul."

"No," I agreed, for no better reason than to keep her there, to keep her talking. "No, you don't. But you must admit that there is much yet for you to learn."

"Look, I really have to be going…"

_No!_ It almost escaped my lips. Instead, I calmed myself and tried to hear what she was saying beyond '_Goodbye_.'

"But before I leave, can I ask for a humongous favor? And promise you won't be offended…"

This was intriguing. What offensive thing could she possibly ask on the first lesson? She hadn't seen me. She didn't know about…my peculiar situation.

"Ask, but I can make no promises."

"I want to hear you sing. Just so I know you can. Just… I mean, if you are going to teach _me_ to sing, _you_ ought to be a singer yourself, right?" She sounded nervous, and I knew she feared my anger. All at once I was heartened and saddened. It was an epiphany: _ I truly did not want her to fear me._

"Of course. Shall I sing "_Under the Greenwood Tree" _for you? Take note of the differences, please." It was not an entirely kindly choice. I _was _somewhat offended that she dared ask for proof of my skill. But kind or unkind, that was my choice. I opened my mouth and began to sing.

She stood there without moving. I did not see her eyes blink or her chest rise with breath the entire span of the song. Fortunately, it is a relatively short piece. When I had done singing, there was the glistening evidence of tears on her cheeks. She suddenly forced air into her lungs in a great shuddering gasp.

"Oh…" she whispered. And again, "Oh…"

I do not wish to sound conceited, so I will preface this by saying that my voice is my _only_ beauty. But it is as angelic as the rest of my pathetic carcass is grotesque; it is as though, in a weak attempt at apology, nature packed all the beauty normally allotted a person into my vocal chords. Had she not asked, I would not have sung for her this night. I would have considered such a move a 'cheap shot'. But she _did_ ask, and I was grateful for the opportunity.

"I trust I will see you tomorrow night. I am sure you are disappointed that you did not get to sing during your lesson tonight, but you must trust me." Her expression had not altered. My voice was still at work within her, like a flower that blooms ever more brightly in the memory. "Once you have established the basics..." But there was no point in continuing. She would hear nothing more from me tonight. I decided that discretion was the better part of valor and left while she still stood, transfixed by the power of music.

Not that I was unmoved by the experience; far from it. I could not know it then, but she had awakened something within me, something soft and distinctly human. Though I had always been alone, I never understand that I was _lonely._ having only cruelty and hatred to compare loneliness to puts the emotion in an entirely different light. But now I was far from cruelty and that loneliness had been lifted, if only for a few hours. I did not know that the sunrise of my life loomed just ahead. I only marveled at how reluctant I was to leave her and at how much I already anticipated our next meeting.

This night, a face – as well as a Voice – accompanied my dreams.


	7. Of Angels and Women

Christine did return the next night, as promised. In a testament to her dedication, she had the vocal exercises memorized and sang them as she worked. I could already hear the difference in her Voice from the change in breathing technique and a better understanding of how her vocal chords functioned. I watched as she worked, strangely gratified to see the lightness of her movements and the small smile on her face.

It was a pretty face.

Please do not mistake notice of a pretty face for anything more; I merely saw that her features were pleasing to the eye. Onstage and in auditions that could count for quite a lot; especially for a soubrette soprano who would play primarily the romantic-interest. In time, I hoped she might develop into a dramatic soprano – it would open a world of roles to her – but for now, her pretty face would be helpful in garnering parts that suited her Voice.

Ah, but now I have revealed my plans! In the past that would have meant your death, but in the past my plans would not have been nearly so innocent. Of course I did not plan to train her voice, only to allow her to continue as a cleaning-woman. I meant to make her a sensation in the music world and mock those who believed only a conservatory education could produce a fine musician.

So I sat watching her, dreaming her future. From the moment I was born, I had none of my own. I would take her future and bind it to mine. With a pretty face _and_ a heavenly voice, the stars were not too far to reach. I could stand behind her all the way. I could see glory; what did it matter if glory never saw me?

Finally she came to the piano and sat down to the keyboard. I had given her permission to play it, but it gave my nerves a shock to see her actually do so. She was no great pianist any more than she was a great singer, but it was clear that the _talent _was there. I wondered what else she might be capable of, and why no one had taken the time to develop this latent musical genius.

I allowed her some play time before I gently interrupted her.

"Christine, when did you learn to play?"

She looked up, startled out of her private world. "I had a neighbor when I was little who used to teach me a little. I never really had lessons. Just…she taught me the notes and how to read music."

"What happened? Why did you not have lessons?"

She shrugged and stared down at the keyboard.

"You don't know? You _don't know_ why you never had lessons?" I couldn't imagine why, but she was lying to me.

"I don't know. I just never did…have them." She was talking to the piano in a Voice so low I could barely make out the words.

"But you have the makings of a true musician. Was it the cost? Were there no academies nearby?"

"I don't want to talk about it," she mumbled. Her face was red and her hands were twisting viciously in the cuffs of her shirt.

Ignorant of the warning signs, I pressed on, "Did your parents never…"

**_SLAM!!!_**

The fall-board crashed home with wood-splintering force. I caught my breath and prayed that no wood actually _had_ splintered. She was still seated, but her demeanor had changed entirely. Her cheeks were bright red, her eyes shot sparks, her jaw was locked in a tooth-cracking grimace. Somehow, she forced intelligible words through her clenched teeth.

"I don't…want…to talk…about it."

I was taken aback. How _dare_ she treat a fine musical instrument in that manner! The little wench did not make enough money in a year to cover the costs of replacing a broken fall-board or refinishing a splintered frame. That piano was a fine antique; it was priceless. Secrecy and mystery be damned - I nearly stepped into view.

"You will _never _do such a thing again, so long as you intend to work in my theatre." I seethed.

She blanched; I can only assume she suddenly realized what she had done.

"I…I'm sorry." Red turned to white, the clenched jaw became an open O of surprise. "I didn't mean to…"

"I'm sure," I snarled. "Now, if you are finished tantruming, we will begin our lesson.

For the rest of the night, she was as meek and biddable as a lamb. She had spent her rage in slamming the keyboard cover. I, on the other hand, was still fuming.

At the time, I believed that I was angry with her for behaving so violently and irresponsibly. Perhaps I was, a little. But the real issue that gnawed at my heart was the fact that the angelic Voice belonged to a human being, with all the associated foibles and flaws to which flesh is heir.

The whole of the first week passed under the shadow of that incident. Neither of us spoke much; I could not reawaken the magic of that first conversation, mainly because she would not talk with me. "_I'm sorry,"_ was all she would say.

It is said that there are street-drugs which addict the susceptible user on the very first dose. So it was with me and conversation, no matter how inane. I desperately wanted that feeling of connecting to another person. Without it, I became more irritable than usual, which is to say that I was unbearable to myself. I began to believe I would be stuck in the mire eternally.

That is, until I perused the employee files and found that a part-time custodian had been hired to cover Tuesdays and Thursdays. A note attached by a paper-clip notified all supervisors to approach the employee from the front and make sure that had his full attention before speaking. Important information was to be delivered in a written format. The new custodian was deaf…and mute.


	8. Like a Flower, Friendship

It was Monday, and I was waiting for Christine to finish her duties. Tonight, the Opera Corps had put on a painful performance of Gluck's Orfeo ed Euridice. My beautiful orchestra had done the best they could, but no degree of symphonic brilliance could have obscured the singers' mediocrity. I suppose they were _good enough_, but I have never been satisfied with _good enough. _

Christine had been in the audience. I called the image back to my mind's eye. She'd worn a crocheted lace dress of soft rose which complimented her fair skin prettily. Her hair hung loose over her shoulders, pinned at the temples with tiny clips. From the moment the orchestra stuck up the Overture, she sat still, leaning her cheek lightly on the tips of her fingers. She moved only to shift from hand to hand. Now and again, I caught her lips moving, forming the words from one aria or another.

In a moment of madness, I wondered what it would be like to sit next to her and watch the opera from the audience instead of hiding like a thief afraid of being caught. When that paroxysm of insanity passed, I bent my mind to the task of teaching. What could she possibly learn from this performance? I certainly did not wish her to believe that this was _good_ singing. The gods forbid she should emulate what she heard.

I watched as she finished her work and drew close to the piano, but did not touch it. I sighed in tired irritation. Would she never forget that one brief moment when things had gone so dreadfully wrong?

"Good evening, child."

"Maestro…I wasn't going to…"

_Still_ she was going on about the damnable piano!

"Of course not. Please, take a seat and tell me: what did you think of the opera tonight?" I put it as casually as possible, so that she would not know I intended to test her.

"You saw me there? You were there?" She sat forward in her chair, but I could not tell whether she was pleased or alarmed.

"I attend all the performances. I could not miss seeing you." Suddenly it occurred to me that she might respond well to a compliment. Women often did. "You looked lovely."

"Thank you…" She paused a moment. I think she smiled. "Where were you sitting?"

"Never you mind that. I want to know what you thought of the performance."

"But I was sitting in the back row in the balcony. You must have been sitting in the same row to have seen me…"

"You are a tenacious one, aren't you." I sighed an annoyed sigh. "Stop trying to find me out, Christine. If I do not wish it, it will never happen. And I do not wish it. Now, answer my question."

Her face twisted in on itself in her visible struggle to contain her curiosity, but it was clear to me that she would never truly allow the subject to drop from her mind. Eventually, her desire to be a good pupil won out, much to my relief. Apparently, curiosity gave way to an irritation that nearly matched my own.

She blurted her answer as if in a hurry to get the ordeal over with.

"Well, the orchestra was amazing. I was completely hung on every note. And the backdrops were delightful. There are some very talented people on the stage and scene crew." I noticed that she did not say "_your"_ crew; no matter how often I insisted the theatre was mine, she insisted on disbelief.

"You do not mention the singers. This being an opera, that seems a key portion to ignore, does it not?"

She looked down and studied her hands closely. "I am hardly one to judge. I've had four whole lessons…"

"And yet you have passed quick enough judgment on my orchestra – even my stage crew. There is no dirt on the stage; it is not your _professional_ opinion I am after." She winced. You are thinking it was a cruel thing to say, I'm sure. But I have never claimed to be a kind man, and she had pushed me past the point of forbearance. "I am asking your intuitive opinion. As an audience member. What did you think of the singers?"

"They were pitiful. Tired-sounding. The woman playing Euridice covered her poor pitch with vibrato, and I believe the man playing Orfeo was attempting to sing over her mistakes – maybe that's why he had no expression at all. The chorus was fine, I guess. It was hard to tell once the other two got going. Does that answer your question?" She rolled her eyes. "You call _me_ tenacious."

"Thank you. Yes. That answers my question." I laughed; the first laugh I've enjoyed in years. "You now have two samples of what it can mean to be a singer. Mine and theirs. Shall we continue our lessons?"

The ice was re-broken. We could talk again, when it was needed, and the only awkwardness stemmed from her insatiable desire to see me, to meet me. We settled into a routine I found very pleasant. She cleaned the theatre, we had our lesson, if she had attended a performance we discussed it, she asked where I was hiding, and I sent her on her way with no answer. Night after night this went on, and I think we became friends after a sort. I cannot say for certain – I've never had one before, so I have no basis for comparison.

I dreaded Tuesdays and Sundays. I, the man who had physically walled himself away from the world and all its denizens, was becoming attached to the attentions of a cleaning-woman.

And so it continued for the next six months.


	9. Rainbows and Trumpets

It was mid-March. Springtime. Birds, bees, flowers, vernal green blossoming everywhere, and today had been especially lovely – or so Christine bouncily informed me as we began our lesson. She had come further in six mere months than even I had believed she could. When we began, her Voice sounded much like any other pretty little untrained voice you might hear humming in an apartment window.

No more. Though she remained a soubrette (for now), her Voice had grown immeasurably. I must tell you about it, and excuse me if I sound like a proud Poppa. Her range was formidable; at five and a half octaves of singable, beautiful sound, there were few singers who could match her. I felt that she could find another octave with time. When we began she'd sported barely three. Her tone was clear and clean, as was her pitch. She could change from register to register with smoothness and agility, no small thanks to the technique I had developed to master my own passagio difficulties. She had control, she had agility, she had the ability to hear a piece once and sing it in key and on pitch. Though her interpretation still needed work, she could interpret well enough to satisfy a conductor.

But none of these things could fully explain the allure of her Voice. It was sweet when the music was sweet, bewitching when the music was bewitching. Tragic arias brought a tear even to my dispassionate eye. She had such a deep well of emotion, and it seemed that she could draw on it at will. The music spoke and she answered; she became a part of it. She did not have a Voice, but a divine instrument; a gift of the gods.

As I was saying, she was informing me that it had been an especially lovely day.

"The sky was so blue, with little horse-tail clouds floating in it, and there were birds just coming back for the warm season, and I saw daffodils and crocuses. And I have a date tomorrow night! What a beautiful, _beautiful_ day!" She was grinning broadly and whirling up and down the aisles with abandon.

"A date?" I cared little for daffodils and crocuses. Blue skies had never been my delight, because that meant the sun was shining. Birds were nice enough in their place….but, "A date with whom?"

She ceased her whirling and leaned on the railing of the orchestra pit, breathing heavily. Her hair hung in her face and she seemed to sparkle. It was the first time I had ever seen what happiness could do to a person. I had seen what fear and misery could do; how the pitiful victim would wither and shrivel, becoming pale and diminished. I could not help but see how beautiful she was. Heavens help me, I could not help but want to touch her, to see if some of her effervescence would rub off on me.

"A date…with…this guy I met…" I could hear her heart beating in her Voice. "He's really sweet…nice." She gasped a few deep breaths and could finally speak normally. "His name's Raoul, and he likes me, and he is _positively gorgeous!" _With that, began singing her warm-ups.

Oh! Let the floor open and swallow me into the depths. Let lightning strike me. Let my heart stop its weary beating. Call down the Furies and let them flay the disgusting flesh from my bones. Anything, anyway, but deliver me into oblivion!

His name was Raoul, and he was gorgeous.

Have you ever loved? Of course you have; it is the most basic and true of human emotions. If you breathe, you love. When did you first recognize the winged messenger of the gentlest feeling? What was the moment you first realized that your heart was tied – no – stitched to another person's? Was it a moment of rainbows and trumpets? Did you smile into smiling eyes and know that you were meant to be one?

Or was it a moment of wretched, writhing pain and loss?

I lost before I had ever loved. In the same moment I knew love, I knew the death of love. Any other man could have pursued and tried to win her love. But I could not; creature, _thing,_ that I am. I could not even present my masked, cloaked, and gloved self to her. How could I ever expect her tenderest feelings to find a home in me? I had noticed her prettiness before, but now she filled my eyes and my mind. I saw, and I loved.

His name was Raoul…and he was gorgeous…and I was a doomed man.

After that, I hardly had the heart to teach her. Christine did not notice my dourness for nearly an hour. Finally, she stopped in the middle of "_Voi che sapete_" and looked up, concerned.

"Is something wrong? Did I miss a note?"

"No, child. You could open your mouth a little wider on "_Pien de desir", _but otherwise, it's fine." I sighed, thinking she could not hear me, but she had become attuned to me and my moods. When one has nothing but sound to go on, one's hearing becomes acute.

"There's definitely something wrong. If there's nothing, why are you sighing?" Her brow was creased, her arms were crossed, and the edge of her thumb was firmly ensconced in her mouth.

"I am only worried for you, Christine." Was there ever so consummate a liar as me? "Your work and your progress. Will this boy take your time away from your singing? You are nearly ready for performance. I would hate to see all your hard-won progress tossed away for a handsome face…"

She laughed lightly with relief. "Is that all? This is just a date – a first date. Don't worry, my Maestro! If I slip in the least, you may say unkind things to me from the shadows!"

A kind reassurance - and a dagger in the chest. From the shadows indeed! I was a ghost to her, a wraith. A voice, and nothing more.

"If you slip, I shall do more than say unkind things," I said, trying to impart a light and joking tone; which was a mistake to say, as I never used a joking tone when things are not amiss.

She grew quite somber. "Please don't be upset. I promise I will keep working just as hard as I do now."

"See that you do." It was all I could say. "See that you do."

We practiced for another hour and a half; I modeled several passages for her and reveled in her enjoyment of my voice. She still loved to hear me sing, and I loved to sing for her. What other audience did I have? Now that I was aware of my love for her, she had become the only audience that mattered.

_Perhaps, _ I thought, _ I can lead her away from the boy with just my song. The sirens led sailors to rocky shores with only the beauty of their song. I am no ship-wrecking shoal; for her I would be a safe harbor.  
_

I am a dangerous man, and it was a dangerous thought. In that moment, I was embarking upon a game I did not know how to play; neither the rules of engagement, nor the terms of an honorable win. My opponent was a stranger, and I cared nothing for him. I cared only for triumph and for the love of Christine.


	10. Proximity

The next night, as she cleaned my theatre, I studied her movements and scanned her face for some evidence that her date had gone badly. But to no avail; she smiled to herself occasionally, and her movements were light and happy. It was clear that things had _not _gone poorly; no, to the contrary…

As I watched, I again felt the desire to be near her and touch her. The latter was impossible, but the former... There was a chance that I could be near her and leave her entirely unaware that anything had ever transpired. If I were clever, and if I were careful, I could risk approaching her.

I looked at the music in my hand. It was "_Minerva! Oh hear me.._." from "_Princess Ida", _a light and comic opera that offended my pupil no end with its "sexist theme" as she continually called it. Convincing her to take on the role of Ida was a long and involved process which required the dragging out of almost every Opera in history to show that this was not the only one with a sexist theme. If she wanted to sing Opera, she would have to accept opera as it was, no matter its flaws.

I happened to be privy to the information that "_Princess Ida" _was the next opera planned for our stage. Our dear managers had decided that light opera was just the thing to increase attendance on opera nights. They were ignoring my suggestions that _skilled singers_ might also improve our ticket sales. The fools continued to insist that auditions had been held and nothing better was currently available.

But I digress, as I so often do.

It was my intention that Christine should audition for her first major role – that of Princess Ida. Until now, she had never approached the stage. It was my hiding place; I had come up with a thousand reasons why she should not sing on the stage. But if she were to audition, she would need to be used to the stage, and what night better than tonight for a good beginning?

"Good morning, Christine.' I nearly choked on my next words. "I trust your…date…went well?"

"Good morning, my Maestro!" She smiled, and suddenly I found swallowing difficult. "You don't have to say 'date' as though it were 'plague.' As in, '_I hope your plague went well.' _And yes, everything was wonderful. He picked me up in a towncar! Can you imagine? With a driver! I thought it was rented, but he said that it was _his_. And we went to dinner at La Chevalle. I laughed the whole time, he was so funny! He's a perfect gentleman, really."

There was nothing in this report that gave me hope. Handsome, rich, youthful, amusing… Fortunate, isn't it, that I am not acquainted with the emotion?

"Really." The Sahara desert had nothing on me. "I have something new for you tonight, so let's get started."

"Where is it? There's nothing on the piano." She looked at the floor, as if I would allow the music to fall there.

"It is on the stage."

"But I'm not supposed to use the stage."

Why was she quibbling?

"Until now." I allowed a smile to sound in my voice. "You have done so well, I think you are ready for an audition."

"Aud…" She paled visibly. "Me? For a real production? Audition as in sing and have other people decide whether I'm good enough to sing in public…" Her speech was getting progressively faster and more clipped.

"Of course." You didn't believe I would spend hours in the dead of night training your Voice so that you could sing pretty tunes in the shower, did you?" What _had _she expected? It had never crossed my mind that she might have no ambition to be heard outside our lessons.

"No…but…it's only been a few months! Don't most singers train for years and years before they sing?" She twisted the cuffs of her shirt until they were tight around her wrists. "Besides, when would I sleep? How could I work?"

There lay the problem. It was so simple, and really no problem at all. I bubbled to give her the solution.

"Sweet child, if you audition and win this part, you will become a resident artist at this theatre. There will be payment. I promise you will not miss the pittance you scrape from the floor."

She stared at nothingness, wide-eyed.

"It pays?" she asked, in the voice of one asleep and dreaming. "All these years I've been slaving at jobs I despised, and now you are telling me that this _pays_!"

She was becoming rather excited, and I was startled to note that her excitement was not entirely happy. She seemed _angered, _rather than pleased. This bore further investigation - but not immediately.

"Yes, child. It pays rather well, should you land a lead role. And you are more than capable of landing a lead role." On with my brilliant scheme, "Please, step upon the stage and we shall begin preparing you."

For a wonder, she obeyed quietly, though I could see that she was trembling and blushing. I was trembling too, if you'll believe it. As I watched her mount the stage, I could envision the future. Instead of drab khakis, I saw her decked out in the robes of Aida, or the dress of the Faerie Queen. The stage became her so much more than the orchestra pit. She was at once transformed into a woman regal and graceful.

Until she giggled.

"Oh, Maestro! It looks so much BIGGER from up here!" she exclaimed. "It looks like there are millions of seats. Oh, I can't even _begin _to imagine standing up here with a sold-out crowd…the orchestra beneath me…the lights in my eyes…"

But I could see that she was doing precisely that, and loving the visions that sprang up in her mind's eye.

"Now, child, pick up your music and we will begin."

"But I need my opening note – I'm not _that_ good."

She was that good, as I have told you before. That she did not recognize it yet was a great tragedy. It was her first time on stage, though, and I did not wish to vex her by arguing with her. Instead, I gave her the first note by singing it myself, and she went on from there, sight reading the music with a facility that was beautiful to hear. There are great divas who could have done no better.

When she began to sing, I gathered my courage – and I must tell you that it was no small feat. I crept from my place in the shadows of the flies, and walked across the stage as softly as dew falling. I made no sound; I barely dared to breathe. She was so absorbed in the music that my precautions were probably unnecessary, but I could not risk discovery.

Soon, I stood directly behind her. I could smell the harsh odor of cleaning chemicals and the sweet scent of her hair and perfume. For the first time I could see clearly every detail – at least of her back. I could see the delicate curve of her neck and the shine of different colors in her hair. What appeared to be mousey brown was really a mix of blonde, brown and bronze. I thought it enchanting.

I became mesmerized. Of its own accord, my hand rose until it hung just inches from her shoulder. How I longed to let it descend, to feel the softness of her skin, to caress her hair. But as it was, I could not even detect her warmth, thanks to the gloves I wore to cover my hideous flesh.

Christine must have sensed something out of the ordinary, because she faltered in her song. That little gap in tone ripped me away from my innocent fantasies and slammed me back into reality. The song was coming to an end, and I must be gone before it did – or before I actually touched her and the game was up. As quietly as I had come, and with a fiercely aching heart, I crept back into the shadows.

"Maestro? Was it ok?" she asked.

"Beautiful," I whispered. Then louder, so that she could hear, "Very well done, for a beginning, but it still requires much work if you are to audition successfully. We have but a month to prepare."

"You know…it was the strangest thing. Right in the middle of that song, I felt as though there was someone near me…watching me. Isn't that funny?" She was smiling, but her smile was half-hearted and troubled. She really had sensed me; I had not touched her in the least. The thought should have been disturbing, but instead, I found it sweet.

"Very."


	11. Into the Light

It was that evening that I began to write music for her. It was simple, Christine being the lyrical creature she was. I never intended that she should hear it; I only needed to vent the emotions that raged in my heart and mind. Many false starts frustrated me before I realized my problem.

I was in love, yes, but I was also unable to _express_ my love. I felt an abiding hatred, but he whom I hated was incorporeal and I could not vent my anger. I was imprisoned in a jail of my own making. I had thought myself clever; avoiding the world's judgment by building my own prison, on my own terms. Now, more than ever, I understood the import and tragedy of a 'gilded cage.'

Once I understood that my problem was a lack of expression, the music took on meaning and direction. It became the conversations I would never have with Christine. In the hours she was not there, I composed and composed until I had nearly papered my composing closet with them. All Sunday, through the night, and through Monday, I neither slept nor ate. Not that I've ever been much for sloth and gluttony, but I took no morsel, had no rest. I composed up until I realized that my student would soon come "looking" for me.

I arrived just as she finished her work and was pleased to hear her humming her audition piece. I thought on the music littering the room in the secret passage and smiled ruefully.

"Good morning, Christine." I began, and could say no more. I felt the flood of words building up in my throat, threatening either to spill out in a torrent or choke me. When she looked up, her expression was grave and disquieted.

"Maestro, I have to ask you a question, and you have to promise not to be offended."

_Why must she always preface questions like that,_ I thought. It was nerve-wracking, to say the least.

"You know I promise nothing, child. But do ask." I could only hope the anxiety I felt could not be heard.

"You would never lie to me, would you?"

The question was so blunt it took me by surprise. And how should I answer? Was throwing my voice a lie? Was it a lie to allow her to believe me some sort of benevolent mentor, rather than a self-absorbed monster?

"No," I decided. "I would not."

"But you said I could be paid well…for singing." She looked down at the sheet music in her hands. "My mother always said it was a waste of time – music. That's why I've never had real lessons. She said it was a waste of my time and her money. She said that music teachers were nothing but expensive baby-sitters."

"How dare…" I snarled, but Christine was not done.

"And if I dared to argue, she had a good example. My Dad was a musician, and _he_ never came to anything but a bad end – at least according to her, he didn't." A tear rolled down her nose and dripped onto the paper. "I wanted lessons. I begged for them. Miss Goldthwaite – that's my neighbor with the piano – _she_ begged for me to have lessons She even offered them for free. My mother literally _threw _her out of the house. She said she was protecting my future. I was just a kid, so I believed her. Then I came here, and there was you, and I started to believe I could be something. But then, when I told Raoul about you…"

"You _told_ someone about me?" My stomach was a ball of ice. "You _told someone?!" _

"Well, just that I was taking lessons at the theatre… You never said not to tell."

It was true. I had never warned her against telling others of my existence. Still…it was as though she had betrayed me to that boy. It would not be the last time.

"Now I'm telling you. But pray continue." Could I help it if I had become cold? She had a way of touching emotions I'd thought dead – love, worry, _fear._

"Well, he said that you probably had some ulterior motive, that he didn't think anyone as old as I am could really be an opera singer – starting from nothing. And he said that he thought it was creepy that I'd never met you. He said to be careful. And so I had to ask you…"

"Has he heard you sing?" I tried to pry my jaws far enough open so that my speech would be intelligible.

"Well, no," she admitted.

"Then he knows _nothing!"_ My voice thundered with a power that startled even me. I could not help it. I was beyond angry. This boy, this rich, handsome, foolish boy was trying to talk my Voice, my pride, out of her destiny. "The damned boy probably thinks opera is _boring_. I tell you that he knows _nothing!_ I would never hurt you, Christine. I…"

I fell silent, realizing the foolish things I was about to say. I pressed my fists to my eyes to regain self-control. When I lowered them, I realized I had made yet another mistake. In my passion, I had forgotten to throw my voice. Christine easily detected its direction. She was slowly ascending the steps onto the lip of the stage, peering into the flies, looking directly at my hiding place.

"If you aren't lying to me," she said in a soft, superbly reasonable tone, "then stop hiding from me. I know you are there, in the wing. If all the wonderful things you've promised are true, I'll see it in your face."

"You do not know what you ask, child…"

"I…am…not…a…child." Oh, but she was terrifying in her sternness. I gazed on the spectacle of her temper, and my love grew exponentially. "I am not the one playing hide-and-go-seek. If you want me to discount everything I've ever been told by anyone in my entire life, you are going to have to _come out of those freakin' curtains_ and tell me to my face!"

She waited a moment, then added this damning codicil in a voice as cold,calm and clear as a mountain lake: "If you don't come out, I am never coming back here again as long as I live."

_So be it, _I thought and stepped out into the light.


	12. Shake On It

It was a moment that hung uncomfortably in time, seeming to stretch itself out eternally. She stood staring at me, I stood staring at her; neither one of us knew what to say or think. At least, I assumed we were in the same position; she has never been willing to tell me what her first thoughts were. All I could do was realize that her eyes were upon me, and that at last, I could see their color. Her eyes were green with flecks of blue and brown.

Being stared at was nothing new to me. If I stepped into the view of others, I was the center of attention. But the way _she _looked at me was something new. Her eyes swept me from head to toe and then back to head again. Her eyebrow was arched ever so slightly as she appraised my appearance. She was not screaming in horror, of course, because every inch of my beastly flesh was covered, excepting my neck. But…she was also not looking at me with detached curiosity, as though I were an exotic animal at the circus or a sideshow at the fair.

It was a look that I was wholly unfamiliar with, at the time. She was looking at me with simple, honest, friendly curiosity. You see, despite my certainty that I was nothing to her but a disembodied voice, she actually had come to think of me as a friend and a teacher; in short, a real person.

"Why are you dressed like that? It's, like, 65 degrees outside. I'd be burning up." The eyebrow rose more, "And what's with the mask? Really, you can be pretty weird."

A thunderbolt could not have stunned me more completely than the realization that _she didn't know. _She did not know that I was a monster and a killer and a freak. To her, I was a real person – weird, but human. It was a fresh start beckoning me, if only with this one person.

And no one had ever mattered to me as this one person mattered to me now.

"I'm quite comfortable, thank you. And…you don't need to ask about the mask. I've come out as you demanded. Be satisfied." Fresh start or not, I could not change my nature.

She sighed a deep and exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Fine. Be weird." She smiled then, a real and bright smile – just for me. "Well, I must say it's nice to meet you after all this time."

With those words, she stepped forward and offered her hand. Her hand was long-fingered and lithe, like most artists' hands. I thought of the hand that lay hidden in my glove: dead-white, gnarled, skeletal, with wrinkled, papery skin. I could not remove my glove and touch her with that hand, though etiquette demanded it. But the delay was costing me dearly – she was beginning to look offended. Still, I could not move.

"I don't have cooties; you can safely shake hands with me." She was nonplussed; her lower lip protruded slightly and her brow was creased.

I must move. I must move. I must… My hand slowly rose. I was going to touch her. I was going to know the feeling of her hand in mine, our skin separated by a thin leather barrier. I was about to touch another person in friendship.

Our hands touched, she grasped mine and shook it, then let go. A normal handshake. Billions of them happen each day.

I was as slow to let go her hand as I had been to grasp it. She tugged, and I released her.

"There," she said, giving me a very odd look. "That wasn't dreadful, was it? "

"No," I agreed, quietly. Then, under my breath, "It's just…been so long." I was struggling to regain my composure. I drew myself up to my full height and found my bearings. I was a dangerous man; a killer (retired). Men great and strong had knelt before me, weeping. I was a musician, damn it! An artist and an architect. I was a magician of great skill. I was not going to melt into a pathetic heap at the feet of a pretty girl.

"Are you ok?" she innocently inquired.

"Yes. I am. As you said, it _has_ been lovely meeting you, but we should go ahead with our business now." My eyes fell on the Bosendorfer Grand. She should hear how such a thing _should_ be played. I swept regally (I hoped) down the stairs and seated myself at the instrument. "I shall accompany you as you sing. Please, I should like to hear a more legato sound – I think that with your attempts to improve diction on this piece you have introduced staccato where is does not belong."

I began to play, and after several false starts when she sat staring at me as one gone mad, she began to sing. Accompaniment always presents a challenge to one not used to being accompanied. Her ear picked up harmonies and rhythms that had nothing to do with her piece. Her singing was disturbed, and she was upset that she suddenly could not do with ease what she had been doing for the past six months. Again, I was the teacher, her Maestro. I was reassuring, and promised that she would adjust to having accompaniment within a few lessons.

"It's a good thing I called you out," she exclaimed as our session came to an end. "It would have been horrible to get up for an audition and have everything fall apart because there was someone playing piano!"

I nodded. Yes, it was good that she had called me out – but not for the reason given.

"You will do fine as long as you don't let this 'dating' thing get in the way. No matter what others say to you, remember that you have genius and talent. Never give up on music, Christine."

"You are so dead-set against my dating." Christine laughed, and the sound sent thrills up and down my spine. "A girl might start to think you're jealous."

"Hnnh…" I responded, showingthe full depth and breadth of my intelligence. A little throat clearing later, I continued. "My only concern is for your music, Christine."

"Ah," she said. That was all. She stared at her music so that I could not read her expression.

There was a moment of awkward silence.

"Alright. Enjoy your day off. Our work resumes Wednesday, and please do keep in mind that time is short." How could I sound as though nothing had transpired here? How could she look and speak so calmly?

"I know, my Maestro. The thought never leaves my mind."

And she was gone.


	13. Daroga

They were having another date. Multiple dates meant it was becoming serious. My displeasure was deep and wide. Perhaps I was a bit jealous, as Christine had hinted. That is immaterial; I had a foe, and I meant to conquer him. All I knew currently was his first name, and that he was ridiculously wealthy, and that he owned a town car.

I had hunted men down on less. Rather, my man had hunted men down on less. I went to the Administrative offices and availed myself of the phone.

"Hello?"

"Daroga." From the moment I heard his voice, I felt my old self trying to crowd back in. The cold, calculating killer who had decided that the best way to face a hateful world was to kill it off, one jeering, leering face at a time wanted dominion.

"Erik. How did you get this number? It's unlisted, it's protected…" He sounded nervous, and I could hardly blame him.

"I have ways. I could never lose touch with you – my oldest friend." Though I'd never been aware of it before, I could now hear the barely veiled tone of threat that saturated my every word.

"You don't have friends, Erik." He sounded tired, too. I wondered exactly how terrified he was at getting this call from me; terrified that I would once again drag him into the world of paid assassinations. "Only people you find useful, and therefore haven't killed yet. I'm retired, Erik."

"Wrong, wrong, and wrong. You are coming back into service again, for one encore assignment."

"I won't do it anymore. I won't help you kill."

"_WE_ never killed anyone who didn't richly deserve it, Daroga, and you know it." I chuckled, and recoiled at the chilling effect that sound had – even on me. Had I been _so_ evil? "But relax. It is not my intent to kill this particular target."

"And you expect me to believe you?"

"Believe me or not, you are still coming out of retirement. Or I shall come visit you." It sounded like a threat, but I truly was not in a killing mood. I wondered what it would be like to be on normal, friendly terms with Mr. Khan. He was an intelligent man; it might be pleasant.

"What is it this time? Politics? Drug lords bickering?" He sighed heavily.

"I told you: I am not killing anyone. I gave that up long ago, and you know it."

There was only silence on the other end of the line; I knew I was going to have to come clean.

"It's for me this time, Daroga. A woman..."

"I never thought even you would go that low…a woman?!"

"I am not killing anyone, man. It's…I luh…am interested in her. For personal reasons. And she is interested in someone else. For personal reasons. And I want to know everything about him…"

"For personal reasons?" he interrupted me.

I snarled. He laughed, sounding more relaxed, more like the man I knew two decades before.

"Erik, this is heartening. Truly. I almost believe you've left your homicidal mania behind. And for a woman. This is too rich. Ok, I'll help."

"How kind. Alright. There is not overmuch to go on, but we've done more with less. First name Raoul (lucky thing there, unusual name), owns a Lincoln towncar, has a driver, very wealthy, lives in the greater Springdale area. Find everything you can. If there's dirt, I want it. If there's not…I still want everything else. Contact me by post."

I gave him the theatre address. The managers knew better than to involve themselves in my business by messing with my mail.

"You swear this isn't a hit?"

"I swear. It's probably pointless, but it isn't a hit."

"Four days…not promising anything. It'll cost you a good bundle." All business. That's why I partnered with the man in the first place. He found them, I carried out the missions, and we both became quite wealthy.

"I know what it costs." I would hardly miss the money.

"And Erik?"

"I'm glad for you."

Click.

I sat back in the comfortable leather chair and contemplated my next move. I felt like a man making keys for his prison cell out of clay. I knew good and well that my mission was futile. She could never love me. But I could not just sit by and let her slip away. I would beat myself bloody in the trying. It would not be the first time.

I could pursue this Raoul character as though he were a 'hit', but I could not sue for Christine's heart in the same way. Nor could I use the usual routes for wooing a lady; there could be no expensive dinners out, no movie dates. I tried to analyze it as though it were a mission.

What were my strengths? My voice, our six month history, and the possibility that I could save her from a life of drudgery and deliver her into a life doing the thing she loved. Also, I was not impoverished; far from it. Should the chance arise, I could drape her in jewels – or whatever she preferred. I loved her with all my being and was entirely devoted to her.

What were my liabilities? I was terribly deformed and ugly. I had been an assassin for many years. I was unused to tender feelings, and had no idea how to express them beyond what I had seen on the stage and read in books. I had to hide from the world, hide in the walls of my theatre; I feared discovery. Weighing these salient points, I realized that I would never have taken this "mission" in the old days. It was doomed. I was doomed.

But I would not go gently. I would fight.


	14. As You Like It

When Christine returned from her night off, I only hesitated a moment before emerging to speak with her. While she worked, I sat at the grand piano and serenaded her with familiar pieces and pieces of my own making.

"That's lovely…" she sighed, finishing up the last bit of polishing.

"I'm glad you enjoy it." I played a few more chord progressions and gently closed the fall-board.

"What was that last one? I don't think I've ever heard it before."

"You haven't. It's never been played before." I was proud of my work, and overjoyed that my audience of one was pleased.

"Never been played before. You mean, you wrote it?" She came over and stood quite close to me.

"I compose, on occasion." Modesty, modesty…

"It was amazing! I thought it was some obscure Chopin piece I'd never heard." She perched on the edge of the bench. "Do you have any more memorized? I mean, that you would be willing to play for me, please?" She asked this favor with a smile and a light touch of her fingertips on my arm.

"For you, Christine? Of course."

And I played. I did not play the works I had composed with her in mind – she would see right through them – but each night from then on I played one new work especially for her. For the most part, she sat on the bench quietly and listened; one night, not long before her audition, she stood just behind me and rested one hand lightly on my shoulder as I played. Count me among the happiest of men!

Music was the key to her heart and her soul, I was sure. The piano was only one way to hold the key. I also sang with her. Now that her Voice was under our control, it complimented mine like violin and harp. Any excuse was good enough for both of us; fortunately, operas are replete with duets. And if you know opera, you know the theme of most of those duets.

Yes, under the guise of mentor, in the voices of fictional characters, I could speak words of love to Christine – and hear her speak them in return. Choose Carmen, and she begged for my love; choose Faust and I could sing the part of fervent suitor. And there were times when I truly believed I saw the spark of real emotion in her eyes as she sang with me or I played for her. I let myself indulge in the pleasant fantasy that when she rested her hand on my shoulder, it was a fond touch. It was a harmless and sweet fantasy that accompanied my waking hours and floated through my dreams. .

But the truth was that she had fallen for her rich-boy and he for her. At first, she would tell me about their dates and the fun they had together, but eventually this tapered off when I would only nod and grow quiet. This was not out of meanness. It was not an attempt to silence her. It was simply that each story of happy couple-hood broke my heart a little more and the pain left me speechless.

Mr. Khan had come back to me with the information, you see, and it was not good. Not for me, at any rate. I was dealing with one Mr. Raoul de Chagny; the child of old, old money and the product of a fine private education. He had never been in trouble in any way, he was a regular contributor to major charities, and he volunteered with local soup kitchens quarterly; he even gave blood on a regular schedule, once every three months. He was as clear and innocent of wrong-doing as a newborn babe.

Khan had condoled with me in his note, saying that he was sorry he could find nothing of interest. In the manilla envelope, he had even gone so far as to include photographs and a physical of my foe. When I saw them, my heart sank like a hulled ship, straight to dead-bottom. Here is what I saw: he was thirty-four years old, about Christine's age, a little over six feet tall, and weighed in at an athletic 190 pounds. He had no chronic illnesses and visited the doctor once a year for an inevitably perfect check-up. He'd apparently broken a bone in high-school, playing lacrosse. His face was broad and manly, with regular features and smoothly tanned skin. His eyes were a deep dark blue, his casually styled (but fashionable) hair a jetty black. In the picture, he was smiling with confidence to show off a mouthful of orthodontically perfect teeth. His eyes were full of jaunty good cheer and I hated every pore of his beautiful face.

He was such a fine specimen of manhood that I almost renounced my decision to pursue Christine. She would do well to find such a mate. He could also deliver her from a life of drudgery and drape her in jewels. He would likely treat her well and make her happy. Their children would be beautiful. Beautiful.

But I loved her. I had never loved before. From the hole being rent in my heart, I could tell that I would never love again. This was my one chance, if it could be considered a chance at all. To keep her attention, I had to do more than simply sing with her, but what could I do?

"Christine," I asked. It was the night before her audition, "if you win this role, I would like to do something …to celebrate. Tell me; what you like?"

She crossed her arms and put the edge of her thumb in her mouth. After a moment of thought, she replied.

"I'd like to see you without the mask," was her earnest reply

I could have wept.

"No, Christine. You wouldn't like it. You would not like it at all."

"Without the gloves, then?"

I shook my head and she stuck her lower lip out.

"Ask for something else. Something pleasant."

"Show me where you hid from me and how you did those tricks with your voice. And that's my final offer."She grinned impishly at me.

"Very well, if that is all you want."

"That, and a hundred roses…" She joked.

"Are you sure you don't want five hundred?" I was quickly learning this friendly teasing game.

"Make it a thousand!" she threw her arms wide. "All over the stage!"

"Done."


	15. Roses

Auditions are hell. No one likes them. The judges are forced to sit through the most painful examples of talentless performing, the performers are terrified of failure, knowing that only a few may be chosen, the supporting orchestra must play the same tired pieces endlessly, and the managers have the threat of my presence literally hanging over their heads. In most opera houses, auditions are held with only piano. In _my_ theatre, though, it is different. I want to hear the power of the voice in relation to the orchestra. I've found that some voices which sound fine with only the piano fade out entirely under the weight of a full orchestra.

I watched as hopeful after hopeful mounted the stage, squalled something, and was dismissed with a polite, "Thank you, we'll call." I was in the catwalks, of course, waiting with sweaty palms and an idiotic smile for my pupil to take the stage.

Finally, they called her. I saw the doubtful look shared between the managers as their custodian took the stage. She looked so small and vulnerable! I could see her trying desperately to stand still, without any of her nervous habits taking over. When the music struck up, though, she relaxed and the magic I was hoping for took over.

Seven months of voice training would not have rendered any other person ready for such an audition. This was a professional opera company, backed by a world-famous symphony orchestra. Those who came to audition generally brought years of training and performance with them. My student, however, had more than a mere desire to sing. She had true talent – she was a virtuoso, a genius.

What treasure, what delight, greater than hearing her Voice and knowing that others were as mesmerized as I? She sang flawlessly, and when she was done, those candidates remaining applauded. The rest had walked out, knowing there was no hope of their winning the role. My managers, morons that they often are, were wise enough to call an end to that day's auditions.

"Thank you, Miss Daae. That will end our auditions today. Miss Daae, please see us in the admin office."

Hearing the words made me positively giddy with joy.

I saw her dismount the stage and follow them to the office to receive her 'promotion'. When she disappeared from my view, I hurried along on my own mission; I had to call all thirty florists and tell them to go ahead with their deliveries.

That night, she walked in quietly, sans cart. She wore a lovely summer dress in a shade of light yellow that complimented her complexion perfectly. Christine Daae the Custodian had become Christine Daae the Opera Singer. I stood on the lip of the stage, the curtains tight closed behind me.

"Congratulations, my student, on your first successful audition."

"Thank you, my Maestro!" She beamed and _skipped_ down the center aisle. "Can you believe it? Out of all those women – and most of them had been singing for years! There was one there from Berkeley!"

"It is not fancy education that makes the singer, Christine…"

With that, I walked offstage, cut the houselights, and opened the curtains. Christine stared for a moment, then fell bonelessly into a seat with her hands pressed to her trembling mouth.

It was precisely the reaction I'd hoped to see. I'd spent the last 10 hours arranging the satiny, _thorny_, things all over the stage. I'd lit each group of roses with a candelabra, carefully placed to show off the perfection of the blooms. Eleven hundred roses graced the stage, lit by five hundred candles. I've never admitted this to anyone before, but by the time I had finished setting up my 'surprise' for Christine, I was burned, bleeding, and sore enough to require both hot and cold soaks, not to mention many bandages. My leather gloves saved my hands, but the rest of me…well… One of my favorite workshirts would never be worn again and it would be sometime before I could look upon a rose (or a candle) without wincing.

She finally recovered enough to scoop herself out of the seat and walk slowly towards the stage. I did not see her blink once; she seemed afraid everything would wink out of existence. She wandered around the stage like a woman in a dream, smelling the flowers, touching their petals, and generally enjoying the display to the fullest. I was also in a dream, watching this vision of loveliness in the candlelight. Every sting and burn faded as she walked slowly about the stage, her eyes aglow.

At long last, she stood downstage with her back to the rows of seats, trying to take in everything at once without leaving the warm glow of the stage. Quietly, I crossed over to stand beside her.

"Is it what you wished for?" I whispered, not wishing to disturb her reverie.

"I never thought…I was just joking…but this…" she gestured towards my gift, "this is…"

"It does not please you?"

"Please me? It's possibly the single most breathtaking thing I've ever seen…"

That is when she turned to me and took both my hands in hers. Our eyes met, and I was sure I'd been struck by lightning. I was completely dazzled. She was speaking, I could see her mouth moving, but it was a moment before I could force my mind to process her words.

"Are you sure that it is only my music that concerns you, my Maestro?" Her Voice was soft, so soft I could hear the hiss of the candles through her words.

Before I knew it, I was shaking my head, unable to speak. She, however, was not so afflicted. One of her hands left mine and traveled to my cheek, lightly touching my mask. I was aware of the danger, but paralyzed by her softness, her kindness. This was a moment I dreamed about, and then felt guilty for daring to dream it. _She_ was touching _me_ and there was no mistaking the tenderness in her eyes.

"What is your real name?" she whispered. "Who are you?"

"I am Erik," I said, disbelieving I could be saying the words in the same moment I pronounced them.

I almost went on to confess my undying love, but the double doors slammed open to admit a tall, muscular, extraordinarily handsome man.

Raoul de Chagny.


	16. The Dying of the Light

In an agonizing instant, my hand and cheek were bereft of her touch. She had turned away from me to face the boy, who stood bristling in the doorway. I felt the heat of the candles on my back and the icy-cold tingle of betrayal in my gut.

"Raoul…how did you…" I heard a dry rasp in her throat as she swallowed.

"Know you were here?" he asked. "Where else would you be at three o'clock in the bloody morning? I called you at ten, and at midnight…by one I was starting to get worried."

In a detached way, I noted that he had the makings of a passable baritone. He was striding masterfully down the aisle, no doubt intending to snatch Christine from the stage. He stopped just short of the orchestra pit.

"But," he continued, anger breaching the false calm in his voice, "I see that I had no reason to worry. You were just here – in the arms of another man."

She glanced behind her to my gift and I saw her close her eyes once, briefly. When she looked back to Raoul, her expression was apologetic. "This is my teacher, Raoul; he's the one who helped me with the audition and everything."

"Do you always snuggle up to your teachers in front of a candlelit wall of roses?" he growled.

"No, Raoul. It's not what it looks like. Really. We were just celebrating. That's all."

Her denial bit me like a rattlesnake; it injected me with a venom that gnawed at my fragile sanity. She _had _nearly been in my arms I _had_ seen that gentle look in her eyes. It was _not_ my fevered imagination.

"Well then, you've celebrated with him. Come on, Christine. We can eat breakfast out and share a glass of wine at my place to 'celebrate'." He held out an imperious hand to her. "Let's go."

That was the final straw. _No_one orders one of my performers off my stage, except me. I attempted to keep my calm, though; there was a lady present, after all. Though it went against every fiber of my being, I tried to settle the issue peacefully.

"Christine is precisely where she wishes to be, sir. You, on the other hand, are trespassing." I took a step forward so that I was poised on the lip of the stage. My right hand had slipped under my cloak to rest reassuringly on the loop of thin wire I habitually carried in my pocket. "I recommend you remove yourself forthwith."

There was no need to speak a threat. My tone carried all the threat I needed to convey. Maybe I had not begun with the intention of killing the interloper, but he stood there as though he owned the place and everyone in it. He laughed (laughed!) and vaulted over the orchestra pit railing. I fell into a fighting stance – again, an ancient habit. By the time he began to mount the stage, I was ready to strangle the life from him.

Cockily, he stood in front of me with his arms folded on his broad chest and raised an eyebrow. "And if I don't?" No doubt he only saw a thin, cloaked, masked freak before him.

The heat of anger left me as suddenly as it had come. The monster I had run so far to escape stood there in its place. That creature dismissed anger, as it dismissed all emotion, as a weakness. I lifted my weapon and tested it on my fingers before giving him a slow, twisted smile.

"Let us just say that your choices are 'now' or 'never'." That was all the bantering I intended to do. I walked towards him, calmly and with purpose.

It must have finally penetrated the boy's thick skull that he might actually be in some danger, because he dropped back a step and curled his right hand into a fist. This entire time, Christine had been standing behind me, staring wildly from one of us to the other. The poor girl had probably never seen two men on the verge of killing one another before; she was frightened half to death.

When I began to advance on Raoul, she dashed between us and placed her delicate hand on my chest. Neither iron nor steel could have stopped me so quickly as that light touch. For the second time that night, her eyes met mine with an impact that drove the breath from my lungs, but this time I saw reproach instead of tenderness.

"Stop…" she murmured. "We're going."

I stopped. A slave is a slave, whether his master cares for him or not. And whether or not Christine loved Erik, Erik was eternally Christine's. I was bound to obey her.

In silence I watched her take his thick wrist and tug him from the stage.

In silence I watched them walk up the aisle.

But as the doors swung to behind them, I could no longer keep silent. A single word tore itself from my quickly constricting throat.

"Christine…"

Then the doors slammed, and I was alone in the darkening theatre with five hundred guttering candles and eleven hundred withering roses. The acrid odor of candle-smoke and the cloying scent of roses threatened to overwhelm me. In a new frame of mind I saw the dying roses with their drooping petals and the melting candles dripping pale wax on the black floor.

I'd given her everything; she'd taken it all, and when she had done with me, those simple words of dismissal.

"_We're going._"

Without so much as a look over my shoulder, I slunk back to my rooms. There I stayed for the next three days, neither eating nor sleeping.

_A/N: Thank you, everyone, for your reviews! They really help the creative process along. Some of you have ade suggestions and asked questions that fired my little thought process. _

_P.S. This is an experimental story, and will be shorter than my others, but this is NOT the end. _


	17. Nadir

For three days I lay like one dead. I fervently _wished_ to die, but could not. I'd survived too much to commit suicide; I was hoping for a slow fade to black. But at the end of three days, something happened that made even torpor in my little room unbearable.

You haven't forgotten, have you? My Christine, my genius pupil, had won the lead role as Princess Ida in my opera's next production. The moment all roles were cast, rehearsal began. My sound tunnel worked wonderfully. It was a work of sheer genius, as all my constructions are works of genius. It carried Christine's sweet Voice directly to my rooms. I clearly heard her introduce herself, ask innocent questions that any newcomer to opera would have, and take direction from a dazzled and respectful director. I heard the director wax poetic about her unearthly voice. There was no singing that first day, thank the gods, but I knew I would not cope with it when it began.

I loved her, I loved her, and I loved her.

I had to get away. But where? How?

Once again I took to the phones.

"Hello?" I'd caught him at a good time. He sounded in good spirits.

"Daroga…"

"Erik?" The relaxed voice was gone.

"Did you receive your payment?" It was a ridiculous question; I'd sent his payment by private courier with receipt notification on delivery. It was ridiculous, and he knew it. The nervous rattle in his voice grew.

"You know I did. Why are you calling?"

"Can't a businessman call his associate without precipitating the third degree?" I asked, too innocently.

"Not when said businessman is a retired assassin and his associate has attempted to break all ties with him. Why are you calling?"

I should have been angry, but I hadn't he heart. It was comforting just that he had not yet hung up the phone.

"Raoul de Chagny is an impressive man, Daroga. Apollo and Adonis kneel at his feet – and ask him for a loan. She went to him. I threw a thousand roses at her feet, and she went to _him_…" I could not disguise my sorrow. Perhaps that is what broke through to Mr. Khan. The killer he'd known felt nothing but anger, anticipation, and satisfaction.

"_It is better to have loved and lost..." _ he quoted. "But not for you, I'd guess." If I hadn't known his feelings toward me better, I'd have said he sounded sympathetic.

"She left me there…and I can't stay here." It was time to drop the bombshell. "Set an extra place at the table, Daroga. I'm coming to visit."

The line was very quiet.

"Daroga?"

"If you've turned over a new leaf or two, you may as well learn manners, Erik. If you want to come to my home (Thanks to Allah that I'm an old bachelor) you should _ask me."_

"Daroga?"

"Yes?"

"I'll be there within twenty-four hours."

Silence.

"If I may?" The words made me feel nauseated, but I was already a broken man., What difference did one more humiliation matter?

"I await you. Good day."

Once he hung up, I called for a car and driver – the public transportation system did not look kindly on masks and cloaks. I gathered a few meager belongings and some money and shoved them into a satchel. I did not know how long I would be gone, nor did I much care.

When the driver arrived, I paid him twice: once to drive me to my destination, and once to keep his mouth shut. Years and years had passed since I last left my theatre and I did not want to hear some idiot's inane babble for the duration of a 6 hour drive.

As we rolled down the massive highway, I had time to reflect that the landscape had changed considerably. There were fewer trees, wider roads, more cars and more developments than there had been a decade before. In a stony silence I watched as trees, towns, industrial complexes, and roadkill passed my window. I viewed them all with indifference.

Mr Khan received me at his door with a glass of port wine. He said nothing but, _"Hello, Erik," _and led me to his sitting-room. His home was very comfortable, set far off the road, and surrounded by old trees. Though the structure itself was not large, it was impeccably kept and decorated. I appreciated the quality of its build and design. I also appreciated the spare room I was offered.

"I am sorry, Erik." He was concluding my tour of his property, which spanned several acres of fields, pleasant woodlands and orchards. The Daroga always had enjoyed assignments which took us to wilder lands; I was not surprised that he'd used much of his money to buy this old farmland. Now we stood in a huge secluded grove of elderly pear trees (which someone had kept with extraordinary care, or they would have ceased to produce long before), just beginning to build their fruits. "But honestly, you saw his picture. What did you think would happen?"

I sank down on the large, exposed root of an old, gnarled pear tree. Many of its branches were cracked and its trunk was split. I thought we shared a remarkable resemblance. The rows of trees stretched out before me, providing a leafy green shield from the world.

What had I expected of Christine? She was a human woman, despite her celestial Voice. She'd been offered a choice between the unknown and the beautiful known.

"I expected the Music to win." I took off my hat and ran a hand over the spiderweb strands of what stood me in stead of hair. I was not self-conscious in front of the old Daroga. He'd seen the worst of me many times, in many ways.

"But…?" he queried, softly.

"But I know what I am, and I know she made her decision in innocence."

I looked up to see that my old associate had taken a comfortable seat in the long grass across from me. His face was expectant, so I continued.

"Which is why I left them alive."

He left me there, at the foot of the tree in the old grove. Before he turned to go, I saw the relief on his face.

He was a wise old man, my Daroga. Shrewd, if not over-kind. He was the one who rescued me so many years ago, pulled my starving carcass out from the New York City alley where I'd been hiding in filth and scrounging scraps the rats left behind. He'd introduced me to his employer who saw in me a prodigious talent for destruction. This man, a ruthless killer himself, took it in mind to create in me his personal bodyguard and 'errand boy'.

The Daroga and I worked together for many years, until we mutually agreed that the business had grown old for both of us. There was no fellow-feeling between us then. I'd been too wretched, and he'd been too frightened of my inhuman detachment. We'd gone our separate ways, and I'd only kept tabs on him since then because he knew all my nastiest secrets. Now, I saw him in a new light. He'd left the old life and transformed himself into a quiet, content farmer, whereas I was still a tormented monster.

I stayed with Daroga for two weeks, restoring my energy and my will. I learned much from him in that time. I watched how he treated me and the care he gave to his plants and few animals. He gave me privacy and respect, food and shelter. More than once, he commented with pleasure on how much I had changed. I said little and nodded much.

The memory of Christine would not leave me; my desire to see her again grew with each passing hour. She would perform soon, and though she could never know it, I intended to be there when she did.

The Daroga walked me out to the car with a hand on my shoulder. We stood by the door and looked at one another with a newfound respect. It was not necessary to speak. Words would have been wasted.

I opened the door and climbed in, but before the driver pulled away I realized something. I signaled for the driver to stop and rolled down my window.

"Daroga!"

He turned back with questioning eyes.

"What's your name? Besides Khan?"

He smiled, lighting up his exotic black eyes so that they shined.

"It's Nadir, Erik. In regular language, it means _the point opposite the zenith_ or _the moment of greatest adversity._"

I had to smile. It was too perfect. "Goodbye, Nadir."

"Do keep in touch."

Six and a half hours later, I arrived back at my theatre.


	18. The Return

I slipped in as I had slipped out, unseen. My first thought was to go to the stage and see what sort of progress had been made on the sets for _Princess Ida, _but as I approached the stage's double doors, I suddenly realized I had not the least desire to see what lay within. In my mind's eye there still burned five hundred candles at the feet of eleven hundred roses.

I could still feel her touch.

After the broad spaces and beautiful groves of Nadir's home, my rooms felt confining. After two weeks of his quiet companionship, the prospect of perfect solitude was a miserably daunting one. How I wished to reverse time! There had been little pleasure when I lived as the Opera Ghost, known only to a few and feared by all,but neither had there been much pain. This new, awakened self could and did feel – intensely. The only comparison I can make is a limb that has been 'asleep' for along time and is just beginning to wake up.

The very next day I took up my old duties: lurking, overseeing, making mental notes to write up later for the managers on this and that. But that afternoon, as rehearsal-time approached, I found that I dreaded facing her – even if she would never know I'd seen her. I did not even wish to hear the rehearsal.

Defeated, I sought the most remote part of the building, and huddled there. I found myself in the room that housed the furnace and some other machinery that made a gloriously loud noise. For an hour, I heard nothing.

Then two of the maintenance crew came in. they were having a loud and lively discussion, of which I was the subject.

"So, you really think he's gone?" the tall one shouted. Joe, I think his name was. Pardon my weak memory; I was only marginally involved in the hiring of service personnel.

"Harasses everyone constantly for ten f-ing years and then _nothing_ for two weeks? Yeah. I bet he's more than gone. I bet he's dead. I bet it's us that finds him." That was the smaller one, Dave or Gary, I think.

They began tinkering with something in the electrical box. I assumed the faulty wiring in the west wing was giving them trouble again.

"Maybe he took a vacation, you don't know." Joe hooked his fingers into claws. "He could be back tonight. He could be _right behind you!"_ He and Dave-or-Gary burst out laughing, but Joe sobered first. "No kidding man, I heard that people have really gotten hurt, bad. That one girl who got her tongue cut out? I'm not going to dick around with somebody who'd do that."

Ah, the tongue episode. Now I cringed at the memory, but at the time I could see no other way to get the horrendous girl out of my opera house! She was backed by big money, the managers would do nothing, and she had not responded at all to my regular scare tactics. I had avoided killing her, but I had silenced her. Permanently. The local police had searched and searched, but of course the bumbling imbeciles had found nothing. It had earned me a formidable reputation. My assaults on employees had been few and far between since then.

"I'm not worried about it. The guy was a nuisance and if he's gone, party! If he's not, screw him anyway. The managers have already started to put things to rights. On Friday they're gonna take down all that Victorian era crap that guy insisted on and start making this place more modern. _They_ obviously think he's gone." Dave-or-Gary was beginning to annoy me.

"You do what you want. _I'm_ gonna keep on like he was here." Joe picked up his tool belt and left. It seemed that Dave-or-Gary still had some work to do. That was just fine with me, because so did I.

As silent as death, I slipped up behind him. I waited until he bent to pick up his own tool belt, then dropped my little wire companion over his head and drew it tight around his neck until I saw the metal furrowing his flesh. If I asserted any more pressure, the flesh would split. Still more, and I'd have his head. Dave-or-Gary began making panicked gurgling noises.

"Silence!" I hissed directly into his ear. He toned it down to the occasional ratcheting noise. "Now then. I'd like to announce my triumphant return - via you. Here's a little message to my dear managers: 'Leave everything as it is. Your maker is back.' To everyone else, just let's have you tell them that I am indeed right behind you, all of you. Let no one make a false step. Is that clear?"

He tried to nod, but the wire bit at his throat.

"You think you can remember that?" His color was changing; I knew I had to let go soon, or I'd have to send my message in a note pinned to the dead body.

For a moment, I was sorely tempted. It was nothing this man had said or done. I just felt the overwhelming desire to kill something. To spread my pain around. But the change Nadir had perceived in me was real. I could not kill this stupid (but innocent) man. I let him go and he scurried backwards until he hit the door, then whirled around and took off.

I knew that this single message would fully restore my rightful place in my theatre. Dave-or-Gary would not be disbelieved; he would have a dreadful bruise in a perfect half-circle around his throat for weeks. My managers would return to their sheep-like, obedient selves. I would reign as I always had, to the betterment of my theatre.


	19. Roses, Again

And the time passed. I was present in every aspect of theatre life, except for the upcoming opera. That I shunned as I would an oncoming plague. As a result I neither heard nor saw Christine, though I ached for her. I knew that she was with that boy, and that she was likely very happy. To see that happiness would have driven me completely mad.

There was constant chatter about her. I never heard an unkind word spoken. She was always described in the most glowing adjectives; she was beautiful, a genius, amazing, talented, sweet… She had fast become a favorite of everyone who worked with her. It seemed that only I noticed that her voice was unfinished. Only I knew that she could come farther and be even more than she currently was. I wanted to _take_ her back and teach her, but I could not - so long as she was with the lout. If_ that_ brute ever showed his face to me again, he would die.

I did not wish to be a murderer again.

When there was nothing else left, I turned to my music to console me. The first works that met my eye as I leafed through my portfolio were the works I had created to Christine. My first impulse was to burn all the beautiful compositions, but when I lifted them, I found I could not crush them. Instead, I carried them to the orchestra pit, set them gently on the piano and began to play. The keys rose and fell as if by magic under my touch, as they always had. It felt so good to play; I wondered why I had ever stopped. Playing brought back some of the sweet feelings I associated with the predawn lessons. A large part of me missed that time spent with the music. Without effort, I fell back into the ritual.

Often, as I played, I imagined that she was near, listening. Sometimes, it seemed I could feel her warmth or the pressure of her hand on my shoulder. These waking dreams were bitter-sweet. I did not know whether to embrace them or reject them. I could never tell whether the wetness under my mask was the result of joy or sorrow.

It was two weeks before the production that I began to find them; roses of so deep a red they were nearly black. One per night. Sometimes, I found them on the fall board of the piano, other times they were pinned to the stage curtains or set in the seat Christine often sat in while we talked. There were no notes and no indication of who the giver might be.

It may seem obvious to you who the giver was, but I dared not hope. To hope, only to discover the roses were the cruel joke of some stage-hands (perhaps those who had had to clean up my thousand roses and pools of candle wax) would have proven beyond my ability to bear. I had dared once to hope and it had gone badly. I would never be so caught again.

Despite my unwillingness to believe they came from her, I still took them as though they were precious. I hung each one from the ceiling in my composing room, bloom downward, so they would dry prettily. If they were a joke, I was a deserving recipient. They could serve as a reminder that one sows what one reaps.

If they were from her, on the other hand, each one was sacred.

The seventh rose was different. It was the same blackish red, but it lacked thorns. Someone had carefully trimmed every thorn from the flower, leaving its stem perfectly smooth and blameless. I sat for many long minutes and held it, unable to understand the meaning. Again, it may be as clear as day to you, but I had never heard of such a thing. It seemed beautiful to me, though I did not know why. These roses I cherished more than the first.

Every rose thereafter was the same – thornless.

I tried to catch the person in the act, but I could never do so. Either the rose was not there, or it was. They appeared in the time between glances. Some nights I would come up and sit and stare, waiting for a flower to appear. Eventually, a noise in the hall or backstage would get my attention, and when I returned, the rose would be there.

I played the game willingly until the night before _Princess Ida_ went up. That night, I decided, there would be no distractions. I seated myself at the piano and began to play. When I tired of familiar tunes, I lapsed into improvisation.

My patience was rewarded. I heard the expected racket in the hallway, but I kept my place. As I suspected, the doors opened, and there came the sound of little feet in the aisle. I didn't look; I didn't dare. I did not know whether I feared it was her or if I feared that it was not. I did not know what I wanted to see, so I continued playing right up until the moment that I felt the warmth of a person standing directly behind me.

A hand, perfectly familiar and gentle, laid itself on my shoulder.

Rapture.

Agony.

Ecstasy.

And most treacherous of all: hope.

Without turning to look, I addressed my gentle visitor,

"Why have you come?"


	20. Promises, Promises

"I'd heard rumors that someone was playing ghostly melodies on the piano in the theatre in the darkest morning hours. It could only be you."

Oh, her Voice! Her sweet, sweet Voice!

"But why have you come?" I touched the keys again and began another aimless improvisation.

Christine was quiet for a long while. I don't know if she was listening to my music or her private thoughts. In her silence, I had time to grasp my own turbulent thoughts. It had never occurred to me as even the remotest possibility that she might return to me of her own free will. Now she was here, but I hadn't the foggiest idea of what to say to her – or whether I wanted her there at all.

"I missed my Maestro." It was spoken too quietly and plainly to be anything but the truth.

Another long silence ensued, filled with my aimless tinkering on the keyboard.

"More likely," I said bitterly, "you realize that your potential is nowhere near realization and you have come for a resumption of your lessons." It was the wrong thing to say. It was a cruel thing to say.

She sighed a deep, drawn out, frustrated sigh. "You _are_ still angry. I was afraid you would be. That's why I was afraid to come."

"You were afraid…of me?"

Christine's hand left my shoulder. I heard her take a step away.

"Of course I was! You _lied_ to me. You said '_Opera Ghost' _was your stage name. Then you disappear, and when you disappear people around here start talking. And then I find out there really _is_ an Opera Ghost, and that he's almost killed people, and I know he's you." Her Voice had risen in volume and pitch. The gods help me, even the sound of her fear was still sweet to me. "What's not to fear? But I missed you."

"I couldn't have told you, Christine. You would never have permitted me to teach you, if I had."

"You abandoned me just when I was about to need you most…" The rebuke stung like nothing else had. I was reminded of the sting of thorns and my anger rose.

"_I,_ Christine? _I _ abandoned _you?_" My fingers halted their playing. I rose and turned to face her. "I recall something different. _You_ left _me_, as I recall. You left me standing on this stage, alone. After I'd given everything to you, after I had bled for you; you took that…that…that _fop_ by his petal-soft hand and _you left me there_!"

I have not yelled since I began working with Nadir so many years before. I always considered it an unseemly show of passion and loss of control. But to stand here and hear her say I abandoned her – it was too much. My voice boomed and echoed in the theatre, filling every niche with my anger.

Instead of quailing before my rage, Christine stepped forward until I could smell her fragrance; there were no more cleaning-solution smells to contend with her natural sweetness. She stood quite close to me. In stark contrast to my shouting tantrum, she spoke in a Voice that was only a half-step louder than a whisper. It achieved the effect she wanted; I listened closely to every word she spoke.

"What did you expect me to do, Erik? Let you kill him right there, on the stage, right in front of me? Did you expect me to watch you garrote my friend without lifting a finger? I didn't believe you to be a stupid man. Did you really think that I could stand there and let that happen? Did you think that I would allow that to happen, and lose you entirely, when I knew I could stop you – and _save you_ from doing such a horrible thing - like this?" She lifted her hand and placed it on my chest, just as she had that night.

Stunned.

I was stunned. I stood like a pole-axed steer, like a deer in headlights, like a frog in a flashlight beam. She stood there, staring up at me with her hand resting on my chest. There were tears in her eyes, but they did not fall to her cheeks.

It seemed I had underestimated my student. Then again, since when had anyone cared to save me from anything? Since Nadir, that's when. My shame could have swallowed me whole. But she wasn't done. After a moment, she swallowed hard and continued in that same soft Voice.

"I came looking for you the next day, but you were gone. I waited for you all night for several nights. The deaf guy who cleans the place now – he ended up writing me a note and asking me if I needed anything. I gave up eventually. And then Gary shows up looking like he survived a hanging." She dropped her hand from my chest and moved away from me. "And I knew you were back. Because I saw that little wire thing you had when you were going to kill Raoul."

Christine walked quietly to the seat I had always thought of as hers and sat down heavily. She dropped her forehead into her hands. I wanted to go to her, speak to her, and try to comfort her, but I was still in a state of shock. My feet and mouth seemed beyond my control. As it turned out, that was fine because she still had not had her say.

"I know I should stay away from you, especially now. If you'd try to strangle Gary, if you've really hurt people, if you really cut some girl's tongue out…what will you do to me?" Christine lifted her head and looked me straight in the eye. The agony in her face stopped the breath in my lungs. In a trance, I walked over and knelt at her feet. She kept my eyes locked with hers. "But you see that it doesn't matter what I fear. I missed you. I tried to send you a message – every night for the last two weeks, I've tried to send you a message."

"The roses," I rasped.

She nodded.

"But Raoul…" I was reduced to two-word phrases.

"Is a wonderful guy, and I really like him…a lot. Maybe I even love him, a little. Maybe that's why this is so hard." She massaged her temples with an agitated hand. "After all, he's everything I was ever supposed to want in a man. But…"

I waited.

And waited.

This was the most exquisite torture I'd ever suffered. And believe me, I've suffered. Finally, she found her Voice again.

"But he's not…oh, I don't know." She looked down to where I knelt on the floor. Her eyes were pleading, but I did not know for what. "He doesn't know music and he doesn't know art. He isn't a box of rocks, but he's not blindingly intelligent, either. He's…" She stopped; I held my breath. "Why am I talking about him to _you?_ Oh, this is such a mess!" Her head descended once again into her palms.

"But, the roses…" I managed. I didn't want to hear about Raoul.

"Yes. The roses." Her hands muffled her Voice. I strained to hear her. "You _are_ all those things, and you are the man who made me all that I am now and all that I might be someday…but you are also the guy who strangled Gary…"

"I didn't intend to hurt him. It was a situation where…" my words were tumbling over each other, like fast-flowing water.

"I've already heard too much about it," she whispered. "Don't. Don't explain."

"I must, Christine. I need you to know that I am not…not what I was, once." How I wished Nadir could have been there, to explain to her what I could not.

"'_Once'_ being two weeks ago?" She sounded incredulous, as she had every right to be.

"No, no. That was a fluke. A freak happening. You see, he was…"

She shook her head slowly. "I've heard enough talk…from you and everyone else. Just…" She reached down with one slender hand and touched my mask. "let me see your face. Tell me how you've changed while I look directly in your face. Then I'll know whether you are telling me the truth."

As gently as I could, I moved her hand from my face. Scylla and Charybdis – I could not win, no matter which move I made.

"I cannot, Christine. I cannot do that."

"Please, Erik."

My name fell from her lips like manna from heaven. I had always thought my name a ruined thing, dirtied irretrievably by my evil deeds. Coming from her, though, it seemed new-dyed and clean. But this was the one request I cold not possibly grant.

When Nadir saw my face for the first time, he'd paled and needed to sit. Nadir was not a man easily disturbed, but my face had nearly unmanned him. There was no way Christine could look on it with anything less than abject terror.

"Why not?" When I touched her hand to move it, she'd turned a bit in my grasp and now her hand was holding mine. "What's under the mask?"

"Pray you never know the answer to that question, Christine." I was sincere and it carried.

"Oh come on," she gave me a little teasing smile, which I could not return. "It can't be that bad…"

I made no move to answer. Finally, she stood and released my hand. I remained on the floor; it was the best place for me at the time. I felt weak and shaky. I heard her sigh very softly.

"Will you at least come to hear me sing? Can I ask that?" Her Voice was very small, very tired.

"I would not miss it for anything. You may not see me, but I will be there." I could promise that much.

"And if I do very well, could I see your face then? As a reward?"

I tried for a joke, "If you fail utterly, it could be your punishment…"

"Then I may?"

I thought about it. If I saw her perform and she was divine, then I would know she could stand on her own two feet. She would no longer need me. It would not matter if she ran screaming into the night. She was Christine; how could I deny her?

"You really want this? Even though I am telling you that it is _not_ a pleasant thing?"

She nodded and I took a moment to admire the way her hair floated around her face.

I crossed my arms around my abdomen to try and ward off the pain. I was pronouncing my own doom, and I knew it.

"Alright. Here are my conditions. You must make it through all four nights with no mistakes. If you manage that, I will…show you what you think you wish to see."

She beamed down at me like a merciful goddess. "Thank you, Erik! I know I can do it, too. As long as I know you'll be there, I can do it. I have to go now and get some sleep if I can, but I will see you here in four nights' time! Goodnight."

"Goodnight," I replied.

In four nights' time, I had promised to do something I had never done willingly. With any other performer, I would have been safe. _No_one makes it through four performances without the slightest of errors. But this was _my_ student, my _Christine_, and as she had said, I had no doubt she could do it.


	21. Makeup

My theatre was full. Every seat was sold and most of them were occupied. Word had gotten out about the unearthly new Prima Donna. My dear managers had wasted no time in advertising their "delightful light opera, starring Miss Christine Daae." My only regret was that there would be no way to prove that it was the improvement in performers and not the change to light opera that improved our ticket sales.

I could not lurk in the catwalks above the audience; there would be too great a chance of being seen. Instead, I had entered long before even the performers arrived and perched on the narrow wall ledge behind a long satin drape. It was uncomfortable, but it was the only place I could think of where I could both hear and see her without being seen myself.

I loved the thrill of a performance. I loved every moment as it happened; the rustle of the crowd with their programs and their purses and the way that rustle subsided to only the occasional cough once the houselights dimmed, the cacophony of the orchestra tuning up and getting settled, and that marvelous moment when the curtains were drawn and the show began. Tonight was no different, except that when the leads emerged, one of them would be my Christine.

Emerge she did. And when she sang, the audience gasped. I could only nod and smile with pride. She had come far since I'd left. Somehow, she had continued her own improvement without my tutelage. Of course, she would have come further had I been her teacher, but her progress was still impressive. I listened carefully, but there were no mistakes.

She received a standing ovation.

The following night, wrapped around the stem of a thornless rose there was a tiny note. Her handwriting was smooth and narrow, sweeping upwards with each letter. It said,

**_Maestro, _**

_**One down, three to go.**_

_**Opera Diva**_

I could not help but smile, though her success only foreshadowed my great humiliation and loss.

Each night, I had the pleasure of witnessing perfect performances. Each morning I received the note.

**_Two to go._**

_**One to go.**_

**_See you tonight._**

That last one… I looked at it for many minutes before setting it with the others. Though I knew it was not intended in a cynical light, I could only read it that way. She would, indeed, see me in all my glory tonight. In my photographic memory, I had catalogued every reaction of every person who had ever seen my face.

When I was young, it had been disgust and contempt, until I ran away. Then on the streets it had been a superstitious fear, though I did my best to keep my secret well guarded. Fear engenders hate, and I was thoroughly hated by all the street people who lived near my haunts. Many a scar I received from a fellow bum who decided it was time to beat the crap out of the freak. I was still a child and unable to fight back. I must admit that as I grew older I lost those fights less and less often.

Later, after Nadir rescued me, my face brought two reactions. Our boss was shocked at first, but then amused. He liked to look at me and comment on the fact that "here, at last, is an uglier mug than mine." His wife never could bear to look at me, but she frequently had me in to 'perform' for her guests. She liked to hear them scream. The other reaction was sheer terror. By then, I was an accomplished hit-man and my victims had every reason to be frightened. It became my trademark to remove the mask just before delivering the death-blow.

Since I left that life, I have always covered my face. In fact, I find it most useful to cover everything that can safely be covered. You'd like to see? No…

But that night, as I had promised, I would show myself to Christine. I wondered morosely whether she would scream first, then faint or faint first and then scream when she woke. Or maybe she would simply turn and run out of the theatre. Such a multitude of possibilities, and I looked forward to none of them.

As I sat pondering these happy thoughts, Christine came in. She was smiling and still held one of the bouquets her adoring public had presented to her on her last night's performance. She floated down the aisle and presented the bouquet to me.

"I thought you should get one, too. Half the work was yours." She was being flattering.

"Thank you." I tried to think of a way to address the delicate issue at hand, but nothing occurred to me. Christine, on the other hand, appeared to have specific plans.

"You know you still have _two_ promises left unfulfilled…" she was teasing again.

How I would miss her teasing!

"Two? I only recall one." I carried the roses to the piano and set them atop it.

"Nooo, no. Before my audition, remember?"

"I remember the roses."

"But you also promised me to show me how you hid from me, and that trick with your voice. Remember that?" She was grinning in anticipation.

It was true. I had promised that, and it would serve as a brief reprieve. I took my little ingénue all through the theatre. I showed her the catwalks and the draw-ropes. It frightened me to see her climb on the ropes and scurry about the catwalks, but she seemed to be having so much fun that I had not the heart to stop her.

"You can see _everything_ from here," she exclaimed happily, sitting almost thirty feet above the best seating. "I thought the view from the stage was good – but this is _amazing_! I bet all the people look so tiny to you."

I spent another hour displaying my vocal abilities. Ventriloquism was a hobby of mine that had come in surprisingly handy on many occasions. Sadly, Christine showed no talent for it, though her interest was intense. I showed her how I could throw my voice and make it seem to come from just one place (a magical talking seat) or from everywhere. I called that one _'the voice of the gods.' _This was the one I had used with her - it worked wonders. If I could have thought of any more tricks I would have entertained her with them until the sun came up, but I could not. My cupboard was bare.

"And now," she announced, "the final promise. All masks off!" I could not help but think that she would have been far less bubbly if she had known what she was in for.

"You are absolutely sure?" We were standing on the stage, facing one another.

"Will you please stop procrastinating? I'm getting sleepy; I can't stay all night." Her eyes were bright with excitement – and I suspect, with the thrill of finally getting her way.

"Alright. But, please do not be frightened. What you are going to see…it is just me. It is only Erik."

That's when I saw the first lines of worry wrinkle her pretty forehead.

I turned from her and took off my hat and mask. Turning back around to face her was undoubtedly the most difficult thing I have ever done in my entire life. I thought Nadir would be proud.

Can you imagine my surprise when she did _not _scream _or_ faint? Her eyes grew very, very wide and her mouth dropped slightly opened, but she did not run away.

"That's amazing," she said in an awed voice. "How long did it take you to get that on? Mine takes about an hour and that's just to play the Princess." She leaned in closer; she appeared to be searching for something.

The crowning jewel of cruel fate: We were both creatures of the theatre now; Christine thought my face was a skillfully applied latex mask and make-up.


	22. Really Real

"I mean, this is… wow…you can't even see where they blended the edges of the latex. Or is this one of those head-neck-shoulders pieces? Those always look extraordinarily realistic." Christine leaned back, apparently satisfied as to the reason why she couldn't see the 'blending' on my 'make-up'.

"Christine, have you wondered yet why I would put on all this 'make-up' just for you to look under the mask?" I still couldn't believe it was the first thing she thought of. People truly do see only what they want to see.

"No clue. You've always been weird. You probably just don't want me to know yet who you really are. What I really can't guess is why you picked to be a monster." She said it lightly and absolutely unconcernedly. At least now I knew what she would think of me when she finally guessed the truth. It hurt deep inside with tight ache that barely let me breathe, like I imagine a heart attack might feel. "Who did you get to do this for you?"

"My mother." Now my perverse side wanted to see how long it would take until she recognized her mistake.

"Really? She must be very talented! How long did it take?"

"About nine months." Deadpan. I was proud of my line delivery.

She gave a brief laugh. "Yeah. It can seem like that; especially when they are working around your eyes. How in the _world _did she do this nose piece? It really looks like you haven't got one! Yours must be _totally_ mushed down under there. And the skin…wow. You must have really skinny features for this to fit so well. Hey, can I touch it? Or would that mess it up?"

No one had ever touched my real face, not even to hit me. My parents and the street-people both stuck to body blows. Even I avoided direct contact with it, preferring to use gloves, thick cloths, or q-tips when contact was necessary. I didn't see how I could let Christine touch it, in all good conscience. But, really, what was the point of denying her?

"Nothing you could do would 'mess' this up," I said, by way of assent.

Time slowed to a snail's pace as I watched her hand rise towards me. Her fingers, light and cool, touched my brow and then my cheek. That's when I saw the first rays of realization begin to dawn.

"It feels...really real." She said, no longer speaking in a light and happy Voice.

The shame I had always felt oozed in and coated my every thought. My dear mother had taken great pleasure in telling me that I looked this way because I had been born evil, and cursed. The way I my life had gone, I'd never had cause to doubt her. I felt Christine's hands leave my face and drop back to her lap.

Cursed.

And now there was another curse to add to the list: I had known the marvelous pleasure of real human touch and it was assured that I would never feel it again. The game was up. I had to tell her. I forced myself to meet her gaze.

"That's because it _is_ 'really real'." She began to shake her head in negation. For some strange reason this infuriated me. She did not have to like it, but she _did_ have to accept it, acknowledge it. "This is how I look. This is my face…" I ripped my gloves off and threw them at her feet. I thrust my hands out, so she could get a good, close look. Gods help me, she recoiled. "And these are my hands…" I gestured roughly to my pitiful excuse for hair. "There's my head… and though I won't torment you with the sight, the rest of me is pretty much the same."

Christine turned her head and averted her gaze. I was frenzied by then – I barely knew what I was doing. I took her pretty face between my two wretched palms and forced her face back towards mine. It forced her to look at me, but it also forced _me_ to look at _her_. She'd gone dead-white, almost as grey as I am, and her expression was one of horror.

"You wanted to see this, damn it, so look!" I was aware of the constricted feeling in my chest and throat and I heard my voice become ragged and raspy; I was about to weep, and I did not care. "Why did I 'pick' to be a monster, Christine? I don't know. You tell me. Tell me why I can't take off this mask and burn it. _Tell me_!" I'd let go of her face and was now grasping her shoulders. She writhed and pushed at my hands, trying to get away.

That's when the threatening storm broke. I broke. I began to cry like a lost little child, though I certainly did not want my mother. Slowly, slowly, I curled to the floor, shaking too badly to stand. My hands slid down her arms and onto the legs of her jeans where they resumed their grip, though most of my strength was gone. Strength requires will, and mine was broken.

Why couldn't Christine have accepted me as a masked teacher? Why did she have to _know _and spoil everything? My hands remained twisted in the material of her jeans. I could not let her go, though I knew I should. In this position I risked a nasty kick from one of her pretty feet, but I wasn't afraid. In fact, I rested my forehead against her knee; my ghoulish tears soaked her light blue-jeans, turning them dark blue. I was as much at her mercy now as she had been at mine moments before.

She did not move a muscle for what felt like the longest time. I could hear her breathing above me, light and fast, but I did not dare look up. I was too ashamed of my behavior, of my bared face and hands, to meet her eyes. All I knew was that she had not kicked me like the dog I was, so I clung to her jeans and hoped.

"Have pity," I whispered. "Have pity on your poor Erik."


	23. Speechless

Had there been a clock, its ticks and tocks would have loudly marked the seconds as I clung to her like a drowning man, waiting for judgment. She was motionless except for her breathing. Once my wild weeping tapered off, the stage was silent.

"I cannot." Her soft voice floated down from above, barely breaking the quiet. My gentle angel. "I cannot pity you."

"Please…"

"No. I respect you too much. Please, my Maestro, get off the floor." Did I detect fresh tears in her Voice? "Please. I can't…I can't see you like this."

I began to grope around on the floor for my mask. That is what I thought she meant. I thought she meant she could not bear to see _me_. But then her hand stopped mine. Her hand, long-fingered and lithe, delicate and beautiful, rested directly atop mine – she was touching me, my bare skin, of her own free will.

"Leave it. Just stand up." Her commands were pronounced with great sorrow. I could not fathom the sadness in her Voice. I had expected nothing but fear and hate. What happened next…it was the epitome of every good dream I'd ever had in my pathetic life. She came down to the floor where I huddled, put her little arm around my waist and pulled me to my feet. Once we were standing she stayed there, holding me up. Please do not think ill of me if I leaned upon her shoulder more than was necessary. I t was the first time I had ever been tenderly lifted and held.

Though she was within inches of me, I still had not seen her face. I could not look at her; the humiliation was too deep. I was standing now, thanks to her gentle ministrations, but my legs threatened to deposit me in an undignified heap on the floor. It was all I could do pull away and turn so that she would not be tormented by the dreadful sight of her mentor unmasked.

I realized that I was a terrible mess, not that it made a great difference in my personal appeal, but one does what one can. The hem of my cloak served to wipe the gaping pit on my face that should have been a nose. You sit there listening so solemnly that I hate to disgust you further…but when there are no nostrils, crying can be terribly messy. It's one of the myriad reasons I detest the practice.

"I'm sorry, Maestro. I didn't know." Once again, she took my hand in hers. It was on this little miracle that I fixed my stare, for lack of other places to look. "I couldn't have known."

"Now that you know," I gently touched the back of her hand the way I might have stroked a bird's feathery breast. It was a liberty; a wondrous liberty. "what will the beautiful Christine do with her monstrous Erik?"

"Oh, Erik, I didn't mean to call you a monster. You aren't a monster." Her apology was sincere.

A smile, some sort of smile, found its way onto my face. Her words from before, the words that had started this whole nasty state of affairs, came back to me. I used them because I had none of my own left.

"If you can look me in the face and say that, I'll know it's true."

I spoke the absolute truth. If Christine pronounced me innocent, then

"For me to do that, you'd have to turn towards me…" Carefully, as though I might break, she used my arm to turn me about until I was facing her. "…and look up."

I hesitated. Her kindness was overwhelming, but I saw no reason to push the metaphorical envelope.

"I've already seen…you…tonight, remember? I was just…terribly wrong about..."

She was trying to behave as though everything was fine. Apparently, she'd forgotten that I'd spent the past seven months training the Voice with which she was now trying to deceive me. I heard the well-controlled tremble and the reluctance with which she spoke. She did not truly wish to look upon my wretchedness again; it warmed my heart that she was willing to do so.

"Christine, I was speaking tongue in cheek. You don't have to look at me; I believe you by default. Let me put the mask and hat back on and we can resume our lessons." She still called me "_Maestro." _I took this as a very hopeful sign that she might allow me to continue instructing her Voice. If she were hesitant, I was considering offering instruction in piano as well.

She nodded, so I retrieved my coverings. When I picked up the gloves, though, she stopped me.

"Won't you be able to play better without them? I can't imagine trying to play piano with gloves on. I can't even zip up my jacket in gloves."

I looked down at my hands, so wormy-grey and gnarled. "If you can stomach the sight of them – yes, it would make playing easier."

"I don't mind them." Her eyes flicked to my face, now safely masked. "They're not so bad…" Her words trailed off, but I read her thought in that quick glance.

"Compared to everything else, I suppose not." I could laugh about it a little now that I knew she would not despise me. She blushed prettily and looked away.

With no further talk, I began to play for her whatever pieces she requested. She sang for me and for me alone. Though I might share her Voice with the world when an opera hit the stage, these sessions were only for the two of us. I possessed her Voice, and she possessed…me.

And so we resumed our old roles: she as the pupil and I as her devoted mentor.

When the time came to let her go, I was taken by a strange desire – one which I cannot explain even now. I saw her cheek, so smooth and soft, and I wanted to kiss it. Yes, profanity, I know. But she was so lovely, I could not restrain myself. She was gathering her new music together to leave. I knew I must speak soon or the chance would be lost; I did not know how long before my courage would return.

"Christine?"

"Maestro?"

"May I ask something of you, and will you promise not to be offended?"

She giggled in recognition of her own way of prefacing awkward questions. I could have predicted her response from that single giggle, but I waited for her to speak.

"You know I can't promise anything, but feel free to ask."

"May I kiss your cheek?" She drew in a breath, but I hurried on, "You can say no. I'll understand. I will not in the least…"

But she had already come over to me and presented her cheek. The gods had lifted my curse, if only for the briefest of moments. Savoring the moment, I bent down and touched my lips to her cheek. When I stood up and met her eyes, she was smiling.

Catching my hand so that I could not escape, she asked me for the third time, "Is my music truly your only concern, my Maestro? Or do you have other concerns?"

"I am afraid I don't understand your question." But I was actually afraid that I did. How could I possibly tell her the truth – especially now?

She was only too happy to clarify, "Do you love me, Erik?"

"Hnnch…" I said. To follow that brilliant declaration of my love and devotion, I stood and stared at her with wide eyes. It had been too much. I was no longer a young man. There were only so many shocks I could take in one night.

While I stood there reeling, she went to her purse and took out a pen and a little scrap of an old receipt. She scribbled something and then pressed the paper into my hand.

"When you can answer me, give me a call. I'll see you then."

With that, she took her music and was gone.


	24. Bad Habits

My desk was bare of everything now, except that crumpled bit of receipt. I sat in a deep meditation, staring at the thing. It was more than a little phone call; it was a deep quandary. Of course I loved her. That was not the question for me or for her. I was not ignorant enough even then to believe that she did not already know my feelings for her. (A man with platonic feelings for a woman rarely presents her with a flaming wall of roses.) No. This was a test to see whether I _would_ tell her or if I _could _tell her. I just could not see the point.

I do not then, nor do I now, understand women. They are strange creatures with thought processes and behaviors entirely alien to the male of the species, even one as strange as I. This is not to say that they are not wonderful creatures. They are. I only wish to point out that a man would never have expected such a thing. But I was not dealing with a man. I was dealing with a woman.

The longer I thought about it, the less fair it seemed. She had essentially ransomed her presence, and the price was a declaration of love – or not – from me. And yet, she had not given me a hint as to her feelings. What if I told her I loved her, only to have her patiently explain that she was with Raoul? I'd have to kill him then, and she would know it was me. That would completely obliterate any chance I might have had with her.

The thought of Raoul temporarily derailed me. Had he kissed her cheek? By the way he brazenly claimed her from the stage, I guessed that he had. In fact, it was possible that he had even kissed her mouth. Beyond that, my mind would not go. It was sickening enough that such a talentless, thick-headed, beef brained fool should have an easy go at life while other, more worthy, persons were made to suffer. I should have killed him while I had the chance.

But that is more digression, and my story is wearing on.

Christine had left me with no choice. I had to call her. I had to tell her. Otherwise, I would be left without her. At that point, I may as well have given up food or water. I am not exaggerating when I say that without her, I would slowly shrivel and die. There was no way I could not declare my love for her until I knew what had become of her fling with Raoul, though. For all my pitiful sniveling, I am not the sort of man one can toy with.

She would have to love me. Only me. No one else. But that would entail what -marriage? _There _was another can of worms Christine's 'innocent' request had opened. If I loved her, and she returned the sentiment, what then? Could I love her and marry her and force her to spend the rest of her natural life with a man who barely qualified as a man? What of dinners? Would she have to sit politely across from me, struggling to choke down her food in full view of my wretched face? Could I touch her as a married man should touch his wife? In order to do that, she would have to see my emaciated body with its death-colored, wrinkled skin. She would have to accept… But that did not bear consideration. And any children that issued from such a union… That dark thought also, I quickly pushed to the most cobwebbed corners of my mind.

In light of all these questions and their dreadfully plain answers, I should have called her and gently told her that I did not love her. It is what a good man would have done. A good man would have lied to her so that she could be free to choose a man who would give her a life worth living. But just in case you've missed the countless clues, I am _not_ a good man. I would like to be a good man, but some people are simply not made that way.

I loved Christine, I wanted Christine, and I would have Christine (if she would take me).

You may be thinking that I then did the rational thing and called her.

Of course not. I called Nadir.

"Daroga…I mean, Nadir?"

"Hello Erik," he sounded much more at ease than the last time I had called him. "How are things?"

"They could be worse…they could be better." I explained the situation while he listened patiently, occasionally emitting a little '_Hmm'_ or an '_Ah'. _My story told I ventured my request for a second favor.

"Nadir, I need you to find out for me. Is she still with that…" (Please excuse me if I do not repeat the language I used) "I need to know before I can tell her what she wants to know."

There was silence for a moment, and then Nadir spoke again in a tone I identified as quiet amusement.

"Have you considered _asking her_ whether she is still with the boy?"

"What if she said that she was? I'd have to kill him. Can you imagine the sort of mess that would make?"

"You never _have_ to kill anyone, Erik." I'm sure that was his most parental voice.

"Maybe not. But I would." I ground my teeth and tried to find a genial tone before I continued. "Daroga, I am asking this as the greatest favor. Do this for me, and I will be eternally in your debt."

"This is not the way to woo a woman, my friend."

"I need to know before I woo, my friend."

He sighed. I heard the scrape of his fingernails against his stubbly chin as he considered.

"Swear to me that, no matter the results, you won't kill Mr. de Chagny."

"Na.."

"Swear it, or I won't do a thing."

A man who wants nothing has no weaknesses. He cannot be blackmailed or pressured. I envied my own previously free state. It seemed that now _everyone_ had me by the short-hairs. At least I still controlled my theatre.

"Fine, fine. I swear I will not kill him."

"Very well. I will notify you by post." There was a short pause. "Erik, I like you much more now than I did when you were a ruthless, heartless killer…but I have to say that you still have some very bad habits to break. Good night."

"Good night, my friend."

I slid down comfortably in the leather chair. Nadir was most likely right; I was certain there were many bad habits I would have to break. That could be attended to later, though, when I did not _need_ those bad habits. For now, I could relax knowing that the spying was in the hands of a true professional.


	25. Opera Love

I can read your look as easily as I can read the numbers on the clock. You are wondering why, if I loved this woman so intensely, I would send Nadir to spy on her. You are thinking that it seems an incongruous act. That is because you have lived with love as more than an abstraction. Maybe you have even loved before in something other than the familial sense. And you'd argue now that love must be based on trust – not spy profiles.

I, on the other hand, have lived with two notions of love. First, and for the longest time, I did not even consider it. It was an improbability, if not an outright impossibility. Please don't believe that this was self-pity and that I only believed that I could not be loved. I also believed that _I could not love._ I'd never known the feeling, and it certainly would have done little for me in the career path upon which I had been set. As I learned with Christine and Nadir, once one learns to love a single person, one has suddenly developed the ability to love _any_one. (DO not look at me that way; you must think beyond romantic love!) For example, I'd learned to love Christine, and promptly formed a friendship with Nadir. How would that do for an assassin? I'll tell you how: it simply would not do at all.

When love finally became a factor in my world, it was in the form of music – especially opera. Faust, Othello, Carmen: these were my models for the tenderest of feelings. Ah! I see understanding dawn in your eyes. Faust tries to win his love by allying with a demon, you are thinking, and Othello outright strangled his dearest one. Carmen flits from one lover to the next, finally chooses one, and is killed by another. What shining examples of fidelity and gentleness! With the help of the greatest composers I learned that love was fickle, cruel, and frequently lethal.

I wanted…no, I _needed_…to know that this was no opera. I needed to know that Christine was not dallying with that great lout before I cast what was left of my ragged, wasted heart at her feet. I could not ask her, though. I've explained that already. Calling in Nadir was the best thing I could think of. The only other way to assure that she was not with the boy would be to kill him. That would be pleasant, but self-defeating.

I did not see Christine in the time between that night on the stage and the arrival of Nadir's letter. She was apparently determined to drag the information from me by torture. In that time I devised a thousand different ways to tell her how completely and absolutely devoted to her I was, and each formulation was more elaborate than the one before it. I re-examined my old sonatas written for her, refurbished some, and left others alone. My every waking thought was devoted to her. In other words, I moped.

Finally, after a week, Nadir's letter came. I stared at it awhile before I began to tear the thing open. Inside was not a detailed description of Christine's activities as I expected. It was a single slip of paper – a memo-sized scrap with just the words, "_Call me." _

"She's with him, isn't she?" It wasn't the most couth greeting, but it was all I could think about.

"Erik, before you lose your cool, you need to listen." We had skipped the niceties altogether. This was more like one of our old conversations.

"If she's with him, nothing you can say will keep me calm. So, out with it. Are they dating? Engaged? Sexually…involved? Married?"

"Erik, listen."

"Listening."

"I could not determine the exact nature of their relationship…"

"They have a relationship?" I began to contemplate the variety of knives. Surely there was one that would provide a slow death for _him_ and a quick one for me.

"It appears so, but Erik, there's no evidence that the relationship is anything other than platonic." Kid gloves. Nadir was handling me with kid gloves.

"Speak clearly, Khan. Talk to me as if I were stupid."

"No smoochies. No huggies. No snuggles." Nadir sighed. "They converse on the phone a great deal, but I saw no other contact."

"What do they talk about?"

"I don't know. The majority of the calls are from his number to hers. I did not feel that the situation merited a tap. She only has a cell phone, and that is more trouble than I care to take."

"You didn't _feel _ that it merited a tap? This is life-or-death, Nadir." I was agitated, but not angry. How could I be angry? Nadir had as much as confirmed that, at the very least, there were no smoochies. "You could at least have tried to hear from beneath her window."

"Erik. Call her. Tell her you love her. Wait too long and she _will_ be in his arms. _He's_ trying. _You_ are not."

"He's handsome and rich…I'm…"

"Wasting time. Squeaky wheel gets the grease, Erik. Call me when you want to come out to the farm again. I enjoyed your last visit."

He hung up without a goodbye. I suppose, since there was no 'hello', there did not need to be a 'goodbye'. The message was that Nadir was done. I was on my own. The fact that Christine and Raoul were not obviously actively dating (or worse) did much to calm my fevered imagination, but the prospect of the phone call was chilling.

I went into the managers' office. Poligny was there, working on some paperwork. As I had done many years before, I hefted him by his lapels and pushed him out the door. (That's a funny story that I may tell you later, but now is not the time). Unlike before, though, he had the good sense to stay out of my way.

I took the telephone in hand, cursed at it for a few minutes, and dialed her number. The phone rang several times before the receiver clicked and Christine's lovely Voice, muddled by sleep, answered.

"Raoul, it's after midnight. I told you we aren't…"

"Christine."


	26. Something to Tell You

"Erik…you called." She sounded so sweetly sleepy!

I could almost see her in her bed; I envisioned a mound of fleecy white down comforters and carelessly strewn pillows with Christine curled up in the center, her hair slightly mussed, dressed chastely in a pristine white nightgown…but I cannot continue along that vein. Nor could I at the time. My own imagination rendered my tongue numb and useless. I tried to speak, but nothing came. There was quiet for a minute or two, and then she spoke.

"Do…do you have something to tell me?" She was waking up more fully now. I would have to speak soon because the squeaky wheel got the

"Grease," I said.

"Did you just say '_grease'_, Erik?" Completely awake now. Certainly sitting up, possibly with her legs hanging over the side of the bed, one delicate shin revealed. No, no. I couldn't think like that.

"No." I coughed, to get my focus back and to clear my throat. "You must still be a little asleep. I do have something to say to you, Christine."

"I'm pretty sure I heard…"

"Come back to the theatre, Christine. It has been too long since we have sung together." There. That was strongly spoken, manly.

"That's it? '_Come back to the theatre'_?" Disappointment dripped from her beautiful Voice, slicing at me. "I'm missing my sleep, here, you know."

"Christine, the Music…your Music is waiting here for you. It has grown…colder without you." I was trying and it somehow wasn't working.

She sighed.

"Erik," she said, and her Voice was soft and slow and patient. "The Music is wonderful and important. I live, eat, and breathe music now. And that's all because of you, and that's wonderful. But there is more to life than music, as strange as that may sound to you. And right now, I _do not_ want to hear about how much the 'Music' missed me."

This was not working at all, at all. I should have stuck to one of my scripts. I should have read it straight off the damned paper. It was too late now – I was ad-libbing lines and the ship was sinking fast.

"It would be highly appreciated if you would come to the theatre."

"Why?" Petulance did nothing for her Voice. Nothing at all. "So you can listen to me sing and then go on and on about the music?"

"No."

"Why then?"

I knew what she wanted, gods help me, I just couldn't give it to her. Suddenly, I was a small child again, not even ten years old, struggling to give my mother what she wanted and failing. It was that child who spoke next and I am forever grateful. The man, the architect, the genius, the composer, the magician, and the assassin were too proud, too cynical, too strong, too angry. For pride and for spite they were unable to do this one little thing. A little child would have to lead them, no matter how battered and sore he might be.

"Because I have missed you, Christine." I'll never understand how she heard me. I could barely hear myself. "Please."

It was quiet. I wondered if she had hung up. No; when I listened, I could hear her slow breath. Then I wondered if she might not have fallen back asleep. That thought was highly disturbing, so I pushed it away. The only possibility remaining was that she was thinking, deliberately deciding my fate. Like the obedient servant I was (how often I'd sarcastically signed off with those words in my notes! How strange that they should come to be truth!) I waited in silence.

"I will be there soon. Will you meet me on the stage?" She paused, and when she spoke again I could hear a smile in her Voice. I could even see it in my mind. It was the little smile that appeared only when she was teasing. "That theatre can be pretty creepy at night. They say it's haunted, you know."

"So I've heard." It was weak, but I could almost call up that teasing tone.

"See you soon."

She hung up. I sat down. This was it. There was no more waiting, no more playing pretty games, no more talking about the Music – or through it. I had to speak to her and I had to do with some semblance of dignity, however humble.

Instead of meeting her on the stage, I determined that I would meet her in the parking lot. She always parked in the same space, according to Nadir. Like a gentleman, I would meet her there and escort her to our stage.

The twenty-five minutes I spent standing in the parking lot gave me plenty of time to reconsider this whole plan, but when I saw her little Civic pull into the parking lot, I knew that the time for reconsidering had long passed.

In the end it was a simple thing. She parked; I walked over to her car and opened her door. I took her hand and gently helped her out of the car. She was wearing pajamas, not a nightgown. They were deep purple and of a soft, stretchy fabric that was pleasant to touch. On her feet, she wore worn bedroom slippers, frayed with age and use. Though I was somewhat disappointed that my image of a floating white lace gown and ballet slippers was not the truth, she was beautiful enough to quicken my heart beat just as she was.

When Christine took my hand, she smiled at me and then dropped her eyes. It was bewitching. I barely looked away from her as I led her across the parking lot, through the side entrance, down the great hall, and into the theatre. We were nearly down the aisle when I realized that I wanted none of this to happen on a stage. Stages were for plays and other works of fiction.

Truth lived in another place. Truth holed up in the composer's study, where it could think in peace. I led her up the stairs onto the stage, and I felt her pace slow in the expectation that that would be our stop. I shook my head slightly – not a word had passed between us this entire time – and led her to the back of the stage. Almost shyly, I touched the lever that opened the hidden door.

It swung inward and she gasped. Her eyes began to twinkle; Christine had never been one to turn up her nose at a mystery. I led her down the perfect acoustic tunnel and into my very private rooms. There, at the back, was my study. I opened the door and stepped out of her way. She gazed in wonder and recognition at the roses hanging from the ceiling. they were her roses, of course; the thornless ones. I saw her take a breath to speak and placed a finger over her lips. Normally I would never have stopped her from speaking, but I knew just how I wanted this moment to be.

I opened the top drawer of my desk and took out the sheaf of staff paper that held the suite of music I had written for her. I only paused a moment before pressing it into her waiting hands.

"In your hands you hold the greatest work I have ever produced. It is wholly inspired by you. If it sounds to you like I '_go on and on about the Music'_ it is only because, to me, you _are_ the Music. Christine, I love you."


	27. The Old Routine

Christine stared intently down at the music. I could not see her expression or whether her eyes registered happiness or disgust. If only she would look up I could read her heart, but she stood as if transfixed with her eyes locked on the coversheet. I had written nothing on the coversheet. It was blank. I could not imagine what she saw on the crisp white paper that could absorb her attention for so long. The only indication I had that she had not turned to stone was a pink blush that spread up her neck and over her ears. A person might flush for any of a number of reasons: anger, embarrassment, fear, excitement, joy. Which was it?

My fingers twitched nervously in the folds of my cloak as she began to move, slowly opening the portfolio to the first page of music. She was taking her time, moving almost imperceptibly. I sank into my chair, exhausted with the watching, and discovered that I could see her whole face from my new position.

It was her eyes that stopped my breath. Somehow, they managed to be both fever-bright and misty, their striking color magnified by the moisture that had welled in them as she began to read. I had taught her well; I knew that the music was playing in her head as she read. I knew she had no choice but to transmute the ink into a mental symphony.

Page after page turned. It was with more than a little joy that I noticed how careful she was with the paper, taking care not to smudge the ink or crease the sheets. Christine treated my music with _respect_. If you have not noticed already, allow me to point out that I draw little distinction between my music and myself. I've been feared and hated, I've been treated with the utmost contempt and great care (as you might treat a snarling dog with its hackles raised), but never have I been respected. _Nadir, _you say? But Nadir does not count! He is…different.

She perused several pieces and I had the pleasure of watching her breath quicken or slow according to the mood of the piece. Her eyes widened, her mouth moved silently with the arias; she was living in my compositions. When she finally stopped and closed the portfolio, I took a breath and held it for a long time before slowly releasing it. She had to speak now. Not a word had left her lips since she'd appeared in her little car. It was time. What doom would she pronounce?

Christine lifted her head and looked at me for a long moment without speaking or even blinking. I could withstand her scrutiny now; after all, she'd seen me – really seen me – and had not screamed or fainted. As always, I waited for her.

"I thought you hadn't noticed me."

That's what she said. Not '_I love you, too,' _or even '_How dare you give this to me?'. _No.

"You thought I what?" Clarity was desperately needed. This was not what I had imagined happening in all the thousands of scenarios I'd dreamed up. This would never have happened if I had dreamed a million more.

"All this time, when you were so sweet to me, I thought it was just because of my voice. I thought you hadn't really noticed _me_ at all." She stepped closer to me. "I asked you over and over if it really was just my music you cared about."

Closer and closer she came, one little step at a time.

"And you never said anything. So I thought you didn't…you know…care about me." Her hand touched mine, and I could feel its warmth through my glove. She then removed my glove without so much as a "_do you mind if I…'. _With the apparently offending article out of the way, she put her hand back over mine and went on talking. "And then there was Raoul..."

"Do you love him?" Interrupting is ungentlemanly, not to mention flat out rude. I have a degree of refinement, but I have never claimed politeness as a personal virtue.

"Raoul?" Christine seemed startled, as though waking up from a dream in a strange place. "No. Well, I guess I _could_ love him, if only…"

"If only?" I was growing agitated. She _could_ love him? _Could_? Not _does, _or_ would. _"'_If only_' isn't an answer, Christine."

"If only I had never known you. He's great. He can be really overbearing, and he's a little too frat-boyish for me…but otherwise, he's a wonderful man." Having nowhere else to sit, she knelt down beside me. "But you!"

Frustrating wench! Was I to be eternally tormented with her half-expressed notions? Was my Angel entirely incapable of finishing a thought?

"Me?" I gently prodded.

"Your voice, the way you talk; I mean, _no one_ talks like that now. And the way you sang! I've literally never heard anything like it before. You're so..." she paused and I thought I'd have to push her on again, but she resumed on her own, "This is going to sound silly, but you really have a powerful presence. I don't think you know the effect you have on people."

It took every fiber of self-restraint I had not to say something sinister then. I _did_ know the effect I had on people: I terrified them. Instead of saying something that would frighten her outright, I tried to steer her back in the direction of my real interest.

"So, because of me, you can't love him?"

She nodded, but said nothing to illuminate the gesture. I was forced to tug at the answer.

"Does that mean that you love me instead, then?"

It used to be one of my great pleasures to make my victims squirm before they died. Had Christine been one of my victims, I would have been well-pleased. She was markedly uncomfortable. Her eyes left mine and fixed on the floor.

"Christine?"

"Erik, I don't know what to tell you…"

"A simple '_yes_' or '_no_' would serve." I didn't understand, then, the vagaries of the human heart.

"I thought I did…" she whispered and withdrew her hand from mine. I watched it go; my heart sank as she lowered it to her knee. "But I've seen so much…"

"My face." It was a snarl, I'll admit.

I stood up from the chair rather quickly, the effect being that it flipped over and banged against the wall. I began to pace about the room, trying to release the fury that boiled within. She retreated to a corner, but I hardly noticed.

"Of course, of course. It's always the face. And here I thought you had seen me and accepted me! Stupid, stupid, stupid! I should know better by now. No woman, no matter how angelic, could love this…this _thing_. You're an excellent actress, my dear. A wonderful actress." I was ranting like a madman, which is to say that I spoke rapidly through gritted teeth.

Have I mentioned before that I'm a fool? In my frenzy, I backed Christine into her corner and for the second time since I'd come to know her, I gripped her arms. It was the second time I'd done so, but this time I'd done it in anger, not misery or desperation. This time I was not gentle. I pulled her body hard against mine so that our faces were mere inches apart. Had this been a kissing moment, I could have kissed her. "Why can't you love me, Christine? I'll never take the mask off. Or the gloves. Give me a role and I'll play it for you. Tell me a song and I'll sing it. I'll be whatever you want me to be, so _why can't you love me?"_ I had nearly come unhinged. Without realizing it, I was shaking her – not roughly, but still…

"Ow…"

Thunderclaps, lightning, the Voice of Heaven – none of these could have pierced the veil of my temporary madness, but her Voice crying out in pain rent it asunder. I saw my hands on her shoulders, one gloved and one bare, both hooked into claws. Never had my flesh looked so hideous to my own eyes. It was the stuff of nightmares, truly. Even now, in nights of troubled sleep, the image of my inhuman hands making furrows in her soft, purple-clad shoulders returns to give me cold sweats.

Suddenly, I felt a small explosion in my midsection and another below my knee. She'd punched me in the sternum with one hard little fist and kicked me with a slippered foot. I have received many a blow in my day; these barely hurt, though the one did force some air from my lungs and the other ached dully. More importantly, her attack had the needed effect: I released her arms and stumbled away backwards, staring alternately at her horrified face and my horrifying hands. There was no making amends for this, though a broken and repeated "I'm sorry," did gush from my mouth.

I'd done the unthinkable; her little cry told me beyond a doubt that I'd hurt my Angel. I had only meant to tell her that I loved her. How had such a simple thing gone so dreadfully wrong?

Without a thought to where I might go, I turned and ran. I heard footsteps trailing mine, but paid no heed. She called my name, but I ignored her. The catwalks had always been a bastion of peace for me. I found myself recklessly scaling the rope now, thinking she would give up the chase then – the climb was a high and dangerous one.

If you've been listening well to my story, and you have more sense than I had then, you know Christine did not stop.

She was less sure and much slower than I, but she climbed the ropes as best as she could. I heard her slippers fall to the floor. Soon, I saw her clamber onto the narrow metal walkway and shakily rise to her now-naked feet. I had backed as far along this particular walk as I could. She looked tiny, clinging to a guide-rope at the opposite end.

"Go back, Christine. It was a mistake. I should never have spoken to you in the first place. I should have left you to your safe little life. Go down. Leave the monster to his haunts. I'll never trouble you again, I swear it." Having issued my commands, I turned and sat facing away from her, my legs dangling from the edge of the walkway. There was no need for further interaction. She would obey, I was certain.

There was silence for a moment, then I felt the catwalk shaking as she climbed back down. Good. She would be safe now, from me and the curses I dragged about with me. She _could_ love Raoul, because I was out of the way. Good for her.

I cannot tell you what thoughts danced like corpses on a gibbet in the dark caves of my mind as I sat there high over my domain. I do not know how many minutes or hours passed before I came back to myself. I was stiff from sitting and morose from thinking. There was no longer any question of whether a creature such as I could love; I knew now that I mustn't. It was my intention to go back to my rooms and start the process of destroying the ridiculous _heart_ I had developed.

Bare feet.

It was her bare feet that allowed her to slip up behind me as I thought. I stood, stretched, and turned…to find Christine standing right in front of me, one white-knuckled hand grasping the rail.

I had been tricked with the old stomp-and-slam-the-door routine.


	28. Scare Me Away

I've mentioned before that I am no longer a young man. My heart skipped a beat and I found myself short of breath. My mask felt constrictive over my face and my cloak and hat were far too heavy on me. I felt clumsy and rather stupid.

Christine, Christine. Ever has she been able to do this to me. She takes pleasure in it, I think.

As I stood staring at her, she stood staring at me. There were dark circles beneath her eyes which added to the blank (bored?) look on her face. Again, I do not know how long she had stood quietly behind me, waiting for me to stand and find her. No doubt she was as stiff as I was.

The import of her presence was not lost on me – not in the least. Such trouble to go through for a beastly thing that had done her harm! It made no sense.

"Are you through tantruming?" she asked sharply. It was not a joking tone. I could tell that she was thoroughly put out. Again, no surprise. "Because if you are not, I am going to sit down to wait. My feet are tired and my arms hurt."

In the past, when some little thing my angel said left me speechless, I'd emitted some sort of nonsense sound. This was no time for such weakness. When I spoke, it had to be the correct thing. The problem was that I did not know what the correct thing was. I had tried to send her away once, and she had not gone.

Would that not be the best thing for her? Was she not a bird that needed to be set free? Was she not a bit of thistledown that needed to float on the breeze? Was she not in need of a protector to guide her away from trouble?

I scrutinized her, looking for a sign that these things were true. All I saw was an intelligent, talented, _perturbed _woman.

"Well?"

"You are supposed to be gone." Brilliant. Was there ever such a genius for saying precisely the wrong thing?

She sighed and massaged her forehead. "I should be gone, Erik. After the way you've acted, I really don't know why I'm not. But if you are finished throwing a fit, I'd like at least to be allowed to finish what I was saying."

What had she been saying? She said she'd _seen too much._

"I don't believe I want to hear it, Christine." I used my most imperious tone, all the while knowing that this was wrong, wrong, wrong. I should melt before her, kneel and beg her forgiveness. I did not want her to go – ever. I should be saying that. I should…but I did not.

I've been eternally grateful that she chose to ignore me completely.

"I was saying that I've seen too much of your temper. It's not wise to love a man who has a tendency to hurt people. Like Gary and that poor girl…"

"And countless others you know nothing about. I've done worse than cuts and bruises, Christine. I've been a terrible man. You _should__go_." My mouth had a vendetta against me, I was sure. Why else would it continue to spew information I wanted kept secret?

She was nodding. Agreeing. But staying.

"I should. But I _can't_. I've seen your temper and I've seen what you hide behind all those clothes. Not to hurt your feelings, but I'm telling you the plain truth; those two things together should be enough to break this spell you hold over me." Her honesty was the slice of a knife. It hurt; I bled under its precise cut. "But…you see that it is not. I stay when I should go. You send me away and I follow you to the rafters of the theatre. In spite of every warning, here I am."

She sat down on the cold metal, pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them. It felt wrong that she should sit looking up at me, so I sat across from her, still pondering the role I should play.

"I am afraid that I've also seen too much of the rest of you. I've seen you be more gentle than violent, you've treated me with more respect than meanness, and your music…" She gestured gracefully with one hand, taking in the stage and orchestra pit below. "Your music more than makes up for…for what you look like. And you gave me my music and my voice – not to mention my dreams. And you love me."

"I never meant to…" I could not even say it. All I could do was gesture at her shoulders.

"But it happened. And it can never happen again." She was all solemnity, all business. In that moment, she reminded me of Nadir when he was attempting to rein me in.

"No. It can't."

"Can you swear that it won't?"

Could I? I was much improved from the man I used to be, but could I promise that my temper would never run away with me again?

"I don't know." I admitted. "I would like to, but if you knew the things I've done…"

"At least you're being honest."

Christine sighed deeply, correctly, from her diaphragm. She leaned forward and took my remaining glove, then my fedora and finally my mask. She did this without asking permission, just as she had taken my other glove before. I'd been stared at before by others, many times. Though I'd always felt shame when exposed to another, I'd never felt naked. I felt naked now. She'd stripped me of my cover, over and over. I had no hiding places left.

"Alright. You say I should go. Here's your chance. Scare me away." She rested her chin on her hand and waited.

It was a direct challenge and I felt obliged to accept. It seemed logical to me that if I told her the worst and she did not leave, she never would.

"You've said before that you like this theatre. Is that still true?"

"I adore it."

"I've told you that it is mine, haven't I?"

"I thought you were just being grandiose." She tilted her head to one side. "What has that got to do with anything?"

"I wasn't being grandiose. I am the architect. Everything you see about you is mine. For obvious reasons, I stayed in the shadows, but _I_ hired the workers who turned my plans into reality. _I_ bought the materials and hired the laborers. _I_ designed the interior. _I_ hired the staff. Until we began to turn a profit, I covered every expense. You don't think the managers obey me only because I'm a scary fellow, do you?"

Her eyes were wide and her jaw had dropped. "But that would cost…"

"Several million dollars. And there was enough left over to attract that fine orchestra and our brilliant conductor. And to sustain my meager life. And for roses and candles."

I paused for a breath, and she jumped in.

"Are you telling me this to scare me away? Or are you just bragging?"

"There is a point, Christine. Where do you suppose a 'person' like me would find millions and millions of dollars? I tell you now that I should have made a mortuary instead, because this place was built on the bodies of my victims. Every cent was blood money, my dear. I used to kill for money. I've been retired for over a decade, and I loathe myself for every murder. They were drug lords, dirty politicians, murderers themselves – every single one lower than dirt, but it doesn't answer. If that isn't sufficient, I can tell you tell my mother knew I was evil and tossed me out when I was…what… twelve, I think. The only two people on the planet who don't think I'm a monster – you and Nadir…"

"Nadir?" She looked pale and a little green around the gills. No doubt my little story was not what she expected.

"My former partner in crime - and the man responsible for pulling me out of the alleyways when I was a wee monster, rather than a large one. Now a quiet farmer living a peaceful life in the boondocks out west. He sheltered me for the two weeks I was absent. He claims I'm reformed." I managed a watery smile. "Maybe he's right. I haven't killed anyone in quite some time. It is possible that I've graduated from killing to merely maiming."

"That is not funny." It must not have been – she wasn't smiling. I shrugged.

"Perhaps not. But it is the truth. I no longer want to kill people. Except maybe your little boyfriend. But I doubt I could do even that. I'm a toothless tiger, Christine. I can tell scary stories, but I've told you before: I am not what I used to be."

"Is that your whole story?"

"Unless you want to hear all the deliciously gory details of how a deformed street urchin becomes a soulless monster, yes. That's about it."

"There's more, I bet. There's no music in what you just told me. But you weren't trying to tell me about music; you were trying to scare me off. I'm still sitting here. Tell me, Erik: what do you want me to do?"

"What do I want? I want you to love me. I want you to stay with me." I had nothing to lose. We were apparently telling all; why should I hold that back? "But I also want you to be safe, happy. That is why you should leave me. Forget me."

"Nadir believes you are reformed?"

"That's what he says, but old men have delusions, sometimes."

"And he's known you since childhood?"

"I suppose."

"I need to meet him."

"Meet the Daroga?" My incredulity broke to pieces against the bulwark of her firm decision.

"Yes." She stood and stretched. "I'd like to be convinced that you've reformed. I'd like to love you."

Which is why I handed her cash and Nadir's phone number. I was strictly forbidden from accompanying her by both of them, and neither has ever been willing to divulge the contents of their meeting. It's a strange and singularly unpleasant thing, knowing that you are being discussed in some faraway place. I felt like a man on trial who has been denied the right to hear the testimony or even be present in the courtroom. No one answered the phone, no one called. All I could think about were the terrible things Nadir Khan knew about me. For an entire week, I fervently wished I had never said his name in her presence.


	29. The Reunion

I was composing. It was all I could think of to do that had the least chance of quieting my mind. It seems that anxiety does good things for my creative flow – I was pleased with what I had written and felt driven to write more. It is rare that words and orchestration and music all come together so easily. In the midst of this pleasurable work, I heard a sound I had never heard before.

The door to my sanctuary opened, and it was not I who opened it. There were footsteps in my hall, and I was not I who walked. In a flash, I was behind my door, ready for ambush, Punjab lasso in hand. Whoever this intruder was, he would die painfully for his incursion into my sacred space. My closet door swung open and I slid around it, smooth as a snake, already in the motion of the strike.

My victim squeaked (squeaked?) in terror.

As quickly as I'd begun the attack, I withdrew. Her scent, her sound, her familiar form – I knew this interloper! The invader was none other than the Voice, my angel, herself. Christine hop-stepped a few feet away and stood staring, her eyes so wide I feared she'd damage the roots. I quickly tucked my lasso in its hidden pocket and held my hands wide and open, trying to show her that I meant no harm. Without a word of hello, she rushed to me and threw herself into my arms, enfolding me in a tight embrace. I stood there, struggling for breath and for composure.

My patient listener, it must seem to you a strange thing to lose one's composure because of a hug. But consider, please, that I had never, never been hugged before. Not like this, at least. I had been bear-hugged in a fight many times and occasionally had my ribs cracked. It is possible to kill a man with a bear-hug especially if the splintered ribs pierce the heart or lungs; I quickly learned never to let an opponent get his arms around me. Such experiences left me with a jumpiness of sorts. It was panic I felt at first, before my conscious mind could convince my subconscious that Christine was not, indeed, trying to kill me.

While I fought that private battle, I stood there stock-still with my hands still held wide. I could smell the spicy odor of Nadir's cooking still clinging to her clothes, though this did nothing to diminish the delightful scent she always carried with her. I noticed that she was very warm – that would be the fear stimulating blood flow – and that her hands were slowly running the length of my back. Her cheek lay against my shoulder and a stray hair tickled under my chin.

More potent, though, was the sensation of her soft, definitely female form pressed against me. When I had pulled her so roughly to me the other night, I was not in the least enjoying her feminine charms. I barely felt her. Now I had time to consider (and the gradually dawning clarity of mind to fully appreciate) the difference between the hardness of the male and the softness of the female.

Like a puppet on strings, my arms slowly, clumsily brought themselves together around her. I was unsure as to the proper way to hug a woman, so I just held her close to me and leaned my cheek on her hair. If she wished to criticize my technique, she was welcome to do so. We stood like that for quite awhile. She seemed not to want to let go and I was happy enough to learn this invaluable lesson in tenderness as long as she would teach it.

At long last she spoke without releasing me.

"Erik, I'm sorry. If I had known, if you had told me more, I could have understood better." She squeezed once, crushingly, and I felt old healed ribs bend under the pressure. I didn't complain, of course. "I love you. I do."

What had the Daroga told this poor girl? I considered the possibility that he had lied to her and deemed it not terribly likely. You must understand that I had never really thought of my past as anything but evil and criminal. I did not understand then that some soft-hearted people might consider it tragic.

When Christine finally let go of me and stepped back, I was shocked at how cold the air of my apartment was. I'd honestly never felt it before. The next shock was how empty my arms felt. I was an incomplete thing without her in them.

She interrupted my thoughts.

"Please put out your hand."

"Hmm?"

"Your hand," she repeated, as patiently as you please. "Please put out your hand, palm down."

I complied, never suspecting that foul play might be afoot. She hit me! She delivered a slap to the back of my poor left hand that stung fiercely right through the leather of my glove. It actually brought tears to the corners of my eyes.

"You minx!" I yelped. "What do you think you're…"

"_That_ was for spying on me. Feel lucky – I'll consider that enough to pay for both me and Raoul. Really, Erik, spying? How would you like it if I spied on _you?_"

Before I could begin to formulate a reply, before I could even decide how I felt about what she'd done, she was back in my arms again. Any indignation I might have felt at her audacious smack melted away. That feeling of warm completion drowned out any sort of ill-humor.

"I missed you so much! It's good to be home."

Her touch, her affection, was easy and natural. There was no doubting the sincerity of her avowal of love. I'd loved her before now, but it had always been a tortured love. The immovable belief that she could never love me – not really – poisoned it and made it imperfect. It was perfect now.

"You love me?"

"I love you."

"Even after Nadir told you…"

"Even then."

"What _did_ Nadir tell you?"

"Ohhh…" her Voice took on a sing-song tone. "Just things. He told me about the dog, for example. And where your music came from. And where he found you. And…and other things."

I gently pushed her away from me so that I could look her in the eyes. As I suspected, her eyes danced around the room, avoiding mine.

"What other things?" There was so much that could have been told! She had been there a week; what had the damnable Iranian told her?

"We talked a lot. He's a talkative one, you know. I think I know everything there is to know about tree-doctoring…"

"To the fiery pit with the trees! What did he tell you about _me,_ Christine?" I was becoming agitated.

Then, as now, my Christine was easily able to soothe and quiet me. I would say I'm putty in her hands, but putty keeps some form of its own. She reached up and caressed my neck and I dissolved.

She took my hands and drew me close again, this time planting a little kiss on the visible portion of my mouth. "Oh, Erik, let's not get into this. Isn't it enough that I'm back and that I love you?"

Oh, it was, it was. I nodded dumbly and decided that I could live without knowing. Let them keep their secrets, so long as she would touch me like this and kiss me like that. I've read that there's a discernible moment when an untamed horse gives in and begins to trust its trainer. She could have saddled me, bridled me, and ridden me to town. It sounds flippant to say, I know, but there is no other way to describe that sensation of letting go, of realizing that my fate was no longer entirely in my own hands and _not minding_.

She knew. I could tell by the twinkle in her eyes and the sweet smile that spread across her beautiful face that she knew exactly the power she had over me. The strange thing was that I did not fear that power at all. I'd never known what it is to be loved, but even in my ignorance I could sense that her power over me was a benevolent one. She would never degrade me or hurt me (excepting that one smack on the hand). She didn't care about my god-forsaken face and she'd forgiven my hellish past.

What I did not know then, was that she and Nadir had discussed more than my past. As Christine was to explain later, talking only about my past would have been too wholly a depressing enterprise. They had also discussed my future. They had _schemed_.

Our honey-sweet reunion was fading into comfortable routine talk, when Christine casually reached past me and lifted my portfolio. She leafed through it for a moment before looking up and me and innocently saying,

"Erik, this is _your_ theatre, isn't it? Why haven't you ever had any of your work performed here?"


	30. Arguments

_A/N, Q&A: 1) A five-octave range is physically impossible. No, there are some librettists with ranges exceeding five octaves. The world record is held by a woman with notes above the human range of hearing. Fascinating, no? The hard part is making one's range musical in nature. 2)How did Christine know how to get to Erik's 'lair'? He took her there himself in Chapter 26 3) Doesn't it seem pretty fast for Christine to fall in love with him now? Erik's not a balanced person. His perceptions are not necessarily the way things are. I keep this in mind when writing from his perspective, so the reader has to keep that in mind as well. (Erik makes numerous allusions to this himself.) A careful reader might look back and notice that Christine has actually been in love with him (or what she knew of him) since the Roses episode – if not before. _Erik_ hasn't known it, because it was inconceivable to him until _just now. _It_ seems _sudden to him, poor thing. Also, consider Chirstine: this is a chick who took a low-paying cleaning job just so she could go to the symphony! She's motivated to love him. _

_When writing from the first person, a writer must be careful _not_ to reveal too much about other characters' thoughts and feelings. Expository can really drag a story down. First person is more demanding of both the writer and the reader. Both have to be sensitive to the little tiny ways we communicate without stating things directly. Of course, keep in mind that I'm not a writer – I'm a mental health case worker! Thank you for your perceptive and helpful and _inspiring_ reviews! _

_All that being said, back to the story._

The heavy collection of works in her hands looked limp to me, as though it were piteously asking the same question. _Why haven't you let me be heard? Aren't you proud of me? _Tenderly, I took it from her hands and held it close to me. There were reasons, of course. I always have reasons – good ones. The truth was, though, that I was afraid.

Not that my work wasn't good enough! Banish the thought! But I was afraid, and I had to let her know that this thing she asked was absolutely, totally, completely out of the question.

"Christine, you've seen this. You've heard it playing in your mind. It is personal; not something to be casually played to the unappreciative, stone-eared masses!" I shuddered. "My work is not for the unwashed herd who cannot tell a cello from a viol when they hear it. No."

She was looking at me with that patient, knowing expression that made me wish _she_ were the one in the mask. Clearly, my explanation was not complete.

"And the performance must be perfect! No conductor could possibly interpret my work correctly. It would be a cartoon caricature of my most precious music. The musicians would have to practice for, oh, months before they would have a prayer of even approaching correct performance." Despite my protestations, I was beginning to see the orchestra in my mind, laboring over my work, yet loving it. How could they not? It was sublime genius, as all my works are genius. But… "And, oh dear gods, the singers I have now – present company excepted – could barely wrap their lips around the lyrics, let alone manage the range required."

Impossible. It was impossible. And damn her eyes for making me dream…

"You could sing it." She said it as casually as sneezing. "I could sing it. We wouldn't need to perform every work – that would take days. Several of the most wonderful pieces require only one or two singers and maybe a chorus. And you could certainly educate the orchestra and our dear Mr. Reyer about your preferences for interpretation and performance. Other composers do it all the time and if they don't like the end result, they pull their works. I don't see why we couldn't…"

She'd gone mad. It was the only explanation for her current state of irrationality, and I lost no time in telling her so. I might be in love, but that did not mean I had to accept her spewing flights of fancy and teasing daydreams that could only leave me wanting.

"Christine, you've gone mad. Entirely mad."

Christine rose from her chair and came quite close to kneel on floor beside me. She grasped both my hands in hers, a gesture I was quick coming to adore. Her eyes gleamed and shone and her cheeks were flushed to a beautiful rose. The excitement rolled from her in waves.

"I have not! I can just see it so clearly. And you, can't you hear it? Can't you just imagine it? Your music in the limelight where it belongs? Your voice…" She paused to swallow and take a deep breath. Her eyes told me that she was not seeing me at all; she was deep within her private vision. "You'd be a god among musicians! Forget Mozart, never mind Chopin, dismiss, Mahler! You can see it, can't you?"

Her enthusiasm, her _belief,_ were infectious. She was beginning to drag me along with her. I felt a dart of desire pierce my heart and flood me with its poison. Yes, I could see it and hear it as if we were there. And therein lay the rub.

_We_ would have to be there. _We_ including _I_. Especially I, who would have to train the orchestra and Mr. Reyer. I, who would have to emerge from hiding after ten years. I, whom the managers knew and could identify. I, the monster.

I knew that my music was more than worthy of performance, but was I worthy of the acclaim that would follow?

You answer too quickly! Let me put it a different way. Let's suppose that John Wayne Gacy or Jeffrey Dahmer were to compose the most beautiful fantasia ever made by mankind. Would you attend the performance? Could you walk up to those soulless killers and say, "_Nice work, sir. I just adored the third movement!"_?

It is true that no one in the audience likely would know my past, but _I _would know. If I shook a hand, I would know what it was that person was shaking hands with, just as I now dwelt miserably with the knowledge of the creature Christine loved.

Speaking of Christine, her fervent eyes were bent unblinking on mine – the only portion of my face visible to her. Just as I could read every emotion in her voice, she apparently had learned to read the language of my eyes, while I had done little to learn to conceal my new-found feelings.

How embarrassing!

"You're afraid."

Many people might have delivered that line scathingly or contemptuously. Many people would have earned their deaths with those few words. Not my angel. She spoke with a gentle compassion that even I could detect. Naturally, I did not acknowledge her insight, but I did avert my eyes to keep her from piercing too deeply into my private thoughts.

"I was afraid, too, when you first spoke to me. And when you told me I had to actually perform… I was more than afraid; I was petrified. But you said it was a sin to keep my gift from the world." Her direction was too clear, too rational. I did not want to hear more, lest I be convinced. "So what about you? Your music and your voice – that's a greater gift than mine. So if what I was doing was a sin, what are you doing? How can you keep this from the world? It needs all the beauty it can get, doesn't it?"

She waited, I resisted. All I could think then was that I had to keep myself hidden away. Monsters belonged in cages, not on stages.

"And even if you don't give a flip about the rest of the world, how can you deny this to yourself?" She took my head in both her hands and tilted it until I met her eyes. I could have wept at the sincerity in them. "You could be known for the good you've done. You could hear your music for real, not just in your head. Erik, you would be seen for you really are. "

I wanted to look away, and couldn't. She was mesmerizing. I'd thought myself powerful… I was leaf in a hurricane.

She paused until she was sure she had my undivided attention.

"You could be free."


	31. Onwards to Freedom

It's a peculiar thing.

I'd always fancied myself "free". Until the moment Christine suggested it was otherwise, it had never been a question in my mind. After all, I'd never been imprisoned (though I'd committed enough murders to be hanged a hundred times over) and I'd never been put in a cage (though I am certainly freakish enough to make an excellent sideshow). In fact, as an assassin I lived with no law but that of my employer and his wife and now I was loose even of those bonds. I thought myself very clever: after escaping my murderous career, I'd chosen –even designed and built - the hole in which I would hide. I'd made it as close to heaven as I could imagine and my funds could manage.

But Christine did not consider me "free" and she was in the right. I could do all the evil I wished, as long as I was careful to hide and sneak; the law did not know I existed and therefore could not seek me out. Yes, I could be evil at will. But my _goodness, _as she so aptly pointed out, was as hopelessly fettered as a caged and covered bird. My most lawful pursuits were carried out like cloak-and-dagger missions - up to and including the ordering of food and other necessities. Those things in me which were admirableby the estimation of the outside world, I treated as normal people would treat a dreadful secret.

Perhaps all that was as it should have been. Consider it my prison sentence, my penance for past wrongs committed. Even now, when all the world (in ignorance of my past) deems me great, I still consider myself no more than a pre-escaped convict. Then, it was not concern for my own freedom that moved my heart to listen to her reason. It was the epiphany that I was not imprisoned alone. My music was imprisoned with me and I was its jailor. I, who loved music more than breath.

Suddenly, I felt the walls closing in around me. It seemed that my apartments had suddenly shrunken to the size of a broom closet and that my mask was suffocating me.

My mask. That was the real prison. My mask and the gruesome visage beneath it, not to mention the corpse I'd been given in exchange for a living man's body. I could run a thousand miles, but as long as there were human beings around me, I was a marked man.

Because of the "_why_"s. "_Why do you wear a mask?" "Why do you wear a hat?_" "_Why are you wrapped up in a cloak?" "Why…why…why?_" And then I would have to answer, or lie, or not answer…

I'd sat silent for many minutes now, staring sightlessly ahead of me as my overburdened brain tried desperately to see the answer to this conundrum. It was not until she touched my hand out of concern and I looked up to see her gentle eyes and sincere, sweet face that I found my answer.

Because the question was not whether I could bring myself to have my music played in my theatre. It was not really even the issue of the mask, as heavily as that weighed on me.

_"You could be seen for who you really are." "You could be free."_

In so saying, Christine had unconsciously made the assertion that would save me. She implied that _my music_ was who I really was; that truly I was not the murderer or the homeless starveling fighting his way through the mean streets - or the monster in the mask.

Still, I shook my head and stared at the floor. "I don't believe it's possible, Christine."

"Buh…" She looked distressed; I pitied her. She had done a wonderful job presenting her case.

"Be reasonable. How would I even begin to go about this? I've been hiding here so long…" She'd been nothing _but_ reasonable, and I knew it. I simply could not convince myself that what she proposed could be anything more than a sweet dream. I had learned early in life that things that seemed to good to be true always _were. _

Christine stood up from her place beside me and let my hands drop to my lap. She was (and is) a patient woman, but I was (and am) a very trying man.

"I thought you were a genius. I must be wrong. I mean, you've got the theatre, the musicians, and the music and yet you can't figure out how to put the pieces together to make a production." She was waving her arms here and there, indicating the imagined ingredients. The excited sparkle was gone from her eyes, replaced by an annoyed glare.

Such a quick change of mood! She was catching my bad habits. Soon enough, her annoyance abruptly faded to a sighing resignation.

"Let's make a compromise," she said, and sighed heavily. "Since you won't do it yourself, I'll do the best I can for you. Give me copies of the scores you'd like to see played and I'll try to get the managers to permit some little off-night presentation, maybe with a half-orchestra. I might even be able to promote it as a free concert. Maybe a few people will come. Some high-school classes or elementary school kids."

Oh, how cruelly she pricked my pride! I could hear no more of this. I practically leapt from my chair and snatched my portfolio.

"Half-orchestra, indeed!" I roared, indignant and more than a little insulted. "Off_-_night? _Children!!? _Never! You've never put up a show in the whole of your little life, you minx of a slip of a _serpent _of an ingénue; you'd bungle even an off-night one-piece production. Never! I swear I shall take the thing in hand and show you the proper way to do it."

"Oh, Erik, you don't have to do that, if it is too much of a burden on you." Sympathy dripped like molasses from her Voice.

"Burden? I've run this theatre single-handed for ten-years. How _dare_ you imply that I cannot…" That's when I finally noticed her expression.

Christine was standing too, but there was a mischievous smile haunting the corners of her eyes and mouth. She was attempting to cover her mouth with one hand, but I noticed that both the hand and her shoulders were shaking.

With laughter.

At my expense.

"You…you she-wolf!" I growled. But I got the joke.

Her laughter bubbled over and she sat directly on the floor, giggling helplessly.

"Oh…oh…oh, you're too easy," she gasped between convulsive bursts of guffawing.

I must admit that a smile escaped me. "Only to you, my dear."

After several minutes, she heaved herself off the floor and came over to hug me. How many times in one day, after never in a lifetime? It was a pure and true miracle.

"Forgive me?"

"Of course."

"That doesn't mean you don't have to do it anymore, you know." She was positively impish. "You swore."

So I had. And oath-breaking was not among my considerable repertoire of iniquities. Onwards to 'freedom'.


	32. First Steps

I did not approach the managers first. What the deuce would I do with them? No, the orchestra was the first thing I needed, so Reyer was my man. Of course, Reyer had never met with me in person, but the one time. That one time had put the fear of the ghost in him and kept him quite biddable.

I think he also respected my ability to run the theatre. Unlike the managers, I had never asked him to whore out the orchestra by playing popular music. I did, however, always demand excellence – another point I believe he was able to appreciate.

I found him alone in his office, working steadily on a Schubert piece, its movements and inflections. I knew he was searching for a unique, yet acceptable, interpretation that would support my orchestra's reputation for startlingly high quality production. He'd been focusing on Schubert recently, thanks to his new soprano, whose lyrical voice (I'd almost given up on developing a dramatic tone) gave new life to Schubert's art songs. They'd already received commendations from various classical societies…but I digress.

His door was cracked and I stood there for a few minutes, watching the thin little man work. There was a considerable problem brewing. Traditionally, I communicated with my employees in a way that inspired by frightening them. Christine's gentle poking and prodding (along with her sage-like insights that people who respected, but did not fear, me might be less inclined to bring the police down on my head) had instilled a sense of shame in me for this behavior. I felt compelled to approach Reyer on a more human level.

Call it practice.

But I hadn't the faintest idea how to begin. I tried to think of it as a jazz improvisation as I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me.

Reyer spoke without turning his head, "It is amazingly rude to walk into someone's workspace without knocking. And open the door – I cannot think in a stuffy atmosphere!"

"I believe," I said, and he recognized who his visitor was. Two words were enough to send him leaping out of his chair and backing against a wall. The "old" Erik was very pleased. I'd done well with this one. I cleared my throat and began again. "I believe I would prefer to hold this conversation in private, my friend."

His eyes cast about; I suppose he was looking for a weapon, or perhaps an escape route. Both of us knew he hadn't a prayer against me.

"Oh, _do_ calm down." I rolled his comfortable chair in front of the door and sat down in it, enjoying the luxurious leather. I suppose one might see blocking the exit as threatening, though that wasn't my intention. Old habits certainly die hard. Be that as it may, I did try my best to put forth a friendly tone. "I'm not here to kill you. I'm here to give you a gift."

"A-a-a-a g-gift?"

Annoyance plucked at the corners of my mind. "Yes, Reyer. Possibly the greatest you've ever received." Conceit is another old habit – one I have no intention of killing. Where my music is concerned, I'm entitled.

From the depths of my cloak, I produced copies of two of the pieces from my portfolio, one instrumental, the other with vocals. With only a moment's hesitation, I held them out for Reyer to take. Of course, he remained frozen against his wall; I could see the entire white of his eyes.

"If you do not come and take this out of my hand, I shall be forced to relinquish my comfortable seat in this chair and bring it to you…" I thought I was merely giving information. Apparently, Reyer heard something frightening in that simple statement. He jumped forward, took the papers, and backed up to his wall again. He stood there, staring at me, holding the music in spasming hands. "Well? Stop gawking and give it a look, man."

He did, and I have never stopped relishing the memory of how the fear melted from his face. He, like Christine, could hear what he saw. His understanding was better than Christine's, though, because he was a past-master of orchestration and had years of interpretation behind him. For a moment his hands ceased their trembling and then began anew – this time with excitement.

"What _is_ this?" His was the voice of man who discovers buried treasure in his backyard.

"It is _my_ work, sir, which I _may_ permit you to perform if you are willing and able to work under my close supervision and to follow my explicit instructions _precisely. _And if you agree to a number of conditions…" A great gift, indeed. I could already feel the headache this venture would cause building behind my eyes.

He was looking directly at me now, his excitement overcoming his terror. He was the third person to meet my gaze in ten years; I found I liked the experience.

"What conditions?"

I'd carefully thought out the conditions under which I could work. Each was indispensable, though I did not believe any of them were unreasonable.

"First, this production remains under a veil of absolute secrecy until the orchestra has met my approval. No one must know what we are working on."

I waited for his nod of assent before continuing.

"Secondly, you shall not dare to add your personal interpretation. I shall rehearse you and you shall rehearse them."

There it was: the reluctance I'd expected. Reyer was a gifted conductor – which is why I brought him in. He expected to have input, which was impossible in this case. Eventually, though, he gave in and nodded.

"Third, all singing shall be done by Miss Daae and me. Don't even attempt to train an understudy."

He looked at me, then flipped to the vocal piece. After a few moments he shrugged. "I know of no one other than Miss Daae who could possibly sing such an arrangement. And I assume you know your abilities."

_Good assumption, _I thought.

"Finally, I expect that my presence will be unnerving to some of our performers and staff. Regardless of their discomfort, I intend to join this theatre. I hold you responsible for managing their behavior."

"But, sir..." he began. I was hearing no excuses.

"I hold _you _responsible, Reyer. Do not disappoint me. I guarantee that both you and they will prefer your methods to mine. Are we agreed?"

Reyer mulled that for a moment. I could imagine the memories the phrase _'my methods'_ invoked.

"Agreed."

Very well then. We shall commence rehearsal immediately following the upcoming production. Two weeks from tonight, I expect you and the orchestra to appear in the theatre prepared to bring my work into being."

I swept into a formal bow, bid him good evening, and left. When Christine came for her visit, I was able to tell her with no small pride that I had _spoken_ with Mr. Reyer and procured his cooperation without a single threat passing between us.

She smiled and patted my hand. "I knew you could."

Such a simple phrase. Mothers use it to praise their children. In me it sparked a sudden desire to order the world according to her pleasure, just so that she would say it again.

"_I knew you could._"

Pardon the sentimentality. It appears to come naturally with age and ill-use.

Having delivered the initial proposal to Reyer, there was nothing to do for the next two weeks but perfect the music and plan my debut down to the most minute detail.

I'm sure I slept, but I do not remember doing so.


	33. About a Mask

There are those in this world who believe in angels. I do not count myself among them, though I must say that in those two weeks I was attended by an angel of my own. Christine was at my side constantly, encouraging, practicing, rehearsing, bringing food and drink, making copies, giving her opinion on revisions – when I think back on it, I am amazed that she survived.

Do not think that my obsession with the upcoming debut drove the love and concern from my heart – quite the contrary. The more I saw of her drive and devotion, the more I loved her.

Why then, did I not stop her from running herself ragged? Why did I continually burden her with tasks? It was because she _asked _to be burdened! If I sent her away on an errand, she returned as quickly as possible, nearly dancing with enthusiasm, waiting for the next task. She slept only when I slept, which was rarely, as I have previously mentioned.

I suppose the music was rest enough for us both. We lived on it. True, we both grew thinner. True, we both developed a glassy stare after the first week. But we were deliriously happy.

Or perhaps we were just delirious.

I can tell you that in the rare moments when we slowed work for a cup of tea or a morsel of dinner, her eyes sought out mine and my hand found and caressed hers. Each touch was tentative, and every sweet gaze broke down one more of my private barriers. There was not a moment when I was alone or lonely; I was bathed in the warmth of her presence.

Even better, she allowed me to go without…

Before I go any further, please let me explain about masks; specifically, my mask. My mask (this same one I wear now) is a full-face piece of a light polymer carefully molded and tied with two velvet strings. I'd custom ordered it from the costume makers who were contracted out to my theatre. I gave them exact specifications and they delivered a lovely piece of work in the shape of a handsome male face. All my previous masks had been of cloth, which was far less flattering.

No matter how handsome, though, it is still a piece of plastic. As such, it is often hot and uncomfortable against the skin – even such skin as I have. It is necessary to take the thing off occasionally and allow the skin to dry out and breathe or terrible irritation and infection follow. I discovered this early in the game.

You ask why I needed a mask in the beginning if I never presented myself to another living being. It is a good question, with an awkward answer. True, it was rare that anyone spotted so much as my shadow. I shall answer you by saying that I, too, am a living man and that like so many of my 'peers', I could not bear to see or even accidentally brush a hand against my cadaverous flesh. Besides, I'd spent my entire life behind one sort of mask or another; it was ancient habit.

That aside, I have told you how my angel stayed by my side throughout those two weeks, stopping only to sleep. I could not always have her away on an errand when time came for a break from the mask. The first time was dreadfully uncomfortable; I'd waited more than eight hours for a chance to take the mask off. We were working on perfecting one of our duet performances.

"Erik? You seem distracted."

"I'm fine," I snapped.

"You are also being snappish."

"Hmph," I humphed.

Her brow creased in irritation. She had been working as hard and long as I had.

"Well, be like that. But you're losing the tempo and it's throwing me off. Do that during the show and nobody's going to be impressed."

"If you are so put out, you should go take a break. Maybe a nap. That sounds about right. You should go take a thirty minute nap and come back."

"Are you trying to say that _you_ need a break?" Just the way she asked it got under my skin. My hot, moist, itchy, stinging skin.

"_No!_" I said with far more emphasis than I intended.

"Geez…I was just trying to make sure you are ok. No need to bite my head off." Her wounded tone brought me to my senses, but it was still such an embarrassing problem. I really was not sure how to bring the delicate topic up. I decided to try her traditional approach – blunt honesty.

"No. I suppose not. What I need is to take this damned thing off for awhile."

She blinked and stood statue-like for a moment. How I wish I could have read her thoughts as she stared at me.

"Well then, why don't you?"

"You're here."

"We can't practice if I'm not."

"But…"

"I've seen your face, Erik. I didn't die." She sighed and sipped some warm tea to wet her throat. "But every moment we stand here quibbling is a moment we could be practicing, revising, preparing…"

"You won't be sick?"

"I'll be sick if we reach our two-week deadline – imposed by _you, _I might add – and are completely unready and disorganized so that no one else in the theatre takes us seriously and this whole thing falls to itty-bitty pieces because you felt _shy_."

She had seen it once before. She'd _touched_ it before. And we were losing time while I worried. I turned from her to remove the thing, as I had done before. I attempted nonchalance, but I'm sure she saw my nervousness. When I turned back, she was already nose-deep in her music.

"Shall we pick up at measure fifty-seven and run straight through the coda?" she asked.

And that was that. From then on, when I needed a break, I just asked her pardon and took the thing off. Certainly, I was nervous, but what a sensation! To be able to go about unmasked in the presence of another – one who was neither sickened nor amused by my features and who was not afraid of me - delighted me in a quiet uneasy way. It was my first taste of freedom.

Real freedom.

With that irksome problem solved, there were no more distractions. The two of us happily did the work of an entire production team. My music had never been nearer perfection; neither had Christine's Voice. Best of all, Christine became indifferent to my appearance through familiarity. She tried to hide her reaction at first, but gradually that became unnecessary. There simply was no reaction to hide.

And through familiarity, some of her indifference began to rub off on me.


	34. The Finished Product

**A/N: I am sorry for the long delay in getting this chapter out. Grad school finally got going and I've been absorbed in several other projects. But here we go again! **

"_The Finished Product." _

Such a workplace cliché! But there it sat in front of us as we stood like two automatons, staring at the heaped piles of sheet music carefully bound in leather with gilt lettering on the front proclaiming this work to be _Liberato_ by Erik. That last caused me some pain – just Erik. I knew my last name very well, but the thought of attaching the name of those who cast me off like trash to this, my second greatest work…well, it was simply insupportable.

Yes, of course, you _wouldn't _know of that other work. I have said nothing of it. You only need know that it will never be performed by or for anyone but my beloved and me. We shall call _Liberato_ my 'greatest' work and move on. Forget that I ever mentioned any other work, or this discussion is at its end.

But let us return to the story. There we stood, in front of the piles that represented the end of our fortnight of labor. Each piece was as perfect as it could be made. Each note was in its place, every signature, and every coda. There was one copy made for each member of the orchestra, for the managers (why the louts insisted on personal copies when they could not read a note was entirely a mystery), and one for Reyer. All that remained to be done was to load the books onto music carts. When that was finished, we could rest.

Christine set the last compilation onto its shelf and stood up to survey the finished project.

"Thank god _that's_ done," she sighed.

I, too, stared at the jammed shelves. It was done. There was nothing more to do until the following evening, when the _real_ work would commence. Fortunately for her, Christine would have little part in the orchestral labors to follow. I suddenly was intensely aware of how many notes I'd written, how many covers I'd bound, how many hours I'd stood and sung – I was thoroughly exhausted.

"We should rest now," I muttered, lacking the strength to speak normally.

She nodded and took my hand, leading me out of the study and into my bedroom. I had slept in here now and then over the last two weeks, but always alone. There had been an unspoken agreement that we would share the bed – but never together. It was enough for me to settle my head on the pillow and smell the perfume of her hair.

Now, though, there was no question of taking turns. We sank down onto the soft surface together, her head on the pillow and mine on my arm. There was barely a breath between lying down and falling asleep. We slept the evening and the night _and_ a considerable portion of the morning through. I woke once, startled by the sensation of someone touching me, and what do you suppose I found?

Her hand still curled around mine…

I woke before she did, grateful for the chance to avoid awkward discussion of how we'd come to be in the same bed all night. I went about the business of putting together a breakfast of sliced fruit, all the while nervously trying to compose an apology or an explanation. It was not until I heard the slap of her bare feet behind me that I remembered: _she _was the one who led _me_ to the bed. Maybe there was no need for the guilt that overwhelmed me.

"I haven't slept that long since I was a kid!" She yawned hugely, then thanked me for the plate I handed her.

We ate in silence. She was too hungry to pause between bites, and I was still overwhelmed with the idea that _I had slept with a woman_.

"Well, aren't you Mister No-talk this morning…" She carried her plate to the sink and rinsed it off. "Well, I really have to go. I've got a gaggle of laundry, a herd of dishes, and a murder of bills I have to take care of. I'm sure there's more than one message on my answering machine, too."

I stood and took her hand in silent supplication. I knew she needed to go back to her life, but I desperately wanted her here. It was then that I began to wonder how we could possibly be together always. Would she leave her home? I, mine? How _did_ one go about proposing such a thing, anyway?

Proposing? I felt a chill invade the pit of my stomach.

The result of all this pondering was that I stood there like a fool while she extracted her hand from mine, kissed my cheek (which I hardly noticed was bare) and left.

In the new silence of my tiny rooms, I vehemently jerked my thoughts back to the task at hand. Reyer and the orchestra must be faced in only a few hours. Every nuance of my entrance must be perfect or everything would fall apart – there would be no Christine to save me. It was time to re-invent the Opera Ghost and make him a respectable man.

The fatal hour struck, marked by the low, insistent chimes of the grandfather clock in the lobby. An hour before I had pushed the music carts into the orchestra pit. I heard the shuffle and noise of the orchestra dragging their respective instruments to their appointed places. There was a low murmur or discussion, and the tone was not entirely pleasant. It seemed that Reyer had given them some hints of the night's activities.

Ah well. I had a reputation to create, and I was determined to do it with my usual flair.

Once the murmur subsided to the sound of musicians tuning their instruments, I took my accustomed place in the folds of the fly curtains. They finished tuning up and opened their music. Only a few of them – first chairs – began to salivate over what they saw. The rest saw only their little sections – they would not know the whole until it was played. I was almost pleased with the reaction on the whole, until my First cellist stood up and called to Reyer in his thick Italian accent,

"But Signore! This work…it is impossible!"


	35. Conquest

Reyer's face blanched. No doubt images of my quick vengeance were dancing in his head. My First cellist, oblivious to his conductor's reaction, continued in his not-quite-perfect English,

"It is unplayable! I shall no be a fool! Not for this…this…_Erik _person. No one even knows this composer!"

Reyer's mouth was moving, but no sound emerged. The rest of the orchestra was staring at the Italian as though he'd gone mad. Announcing that a work was "unplayable" was tantamount to forfeiting one's place in the orchestra. The Second chair surreptitiously leaned over to get a glance at the score, then looked away.

It was all too much. I was a reformed man, but I could think only of Christine's tired face and all the grueling hours we had spent working to bring my great work into being – to make it ready for these, my chosen few. It would not fall apart because of some thick-fingered boor who I'd apparently mistaken for an artist!

"Signore Fraioli," I unleashed the voice of the gods, letting it thunder through the theatre, "I would refrain from making disparaging comments about the composer _in his presence!_"

With that I stepped from the shadows, my hand tight around the handle of my lasso. As a body, they stood, meaning to flee. Reyer only placed one hand over his eyes, as if blinding himself to the carnage that would surely follow.

"SIT!" Even my ears rang from the volume.

In the ensuing silence I stalked towards my victim. I wanted nothing more than to feel the flesh of his corpulent neck give way beneath the wire of my lasso. Unfortunately, as I drew closer to him, I remembered that I had a greater thing to accomplish. If I killed the talentless minstrel now, it might be months before a suitable replacement could be found. And Christine! What would my beloved say if I began murdering the musicians?

I stood behind him, watching his jowls quiver and beads of sweat gather on his brow. His dimpled hands had let loose his instrument; it was slowly sliding and would soon crash to the floor. This man deserved death, there was no doubt, but I could not stop the futile beating of his heart. I would have to destroy him in some other way.

I rescued the cello a breath before its ill-fated meeting with the tiled floor. It was a beautiful thing, as all our instruments were beautiful. I took a moment to admire the delicate but understated shaping of its scroll and the elegant drop of its fingerboard. The cello was not among my preferred instruments, but it had strings – I could play it.

"_Unplayable_, you say, signore?" I took the empty seat across from his and turned it so that the entire orchestra might enjoy this imbecile's abject humiliation. The cello leaned against me, begging to be a conduit to my music. Lightly as a lover's kiss (little as I knew of those, then) I tested the bow on the strings, gaining a feel for the instrument's play and personality.

It began as an admonishment to a wayward musician, but once the cello began to sing, I could think of nothing else. Finally, finally, my music was free.

Oh, it flew from the strings like white doves from a shattered cage. It filled the theatre completely, sweetly, using the perfect acoustics as they were meant to be used – to magnify and glorify the music. This was only a slice of the work, a mere whisper of the celestial chorus that would be. But it was music. _My_ music. And it was not silenced by the absence of an audience, and it was not hushed in the blunted ears of the ignorant. My audience (admittedly captive) knew what they were hearing.

But I had passed beyond them. I was wrapped in the ecstasy of the sound and the poetry of the movement. It was not until I had exhausted the piece and opened my eyes to my surroundings again that I saw them. Rows and rows of eyes were trained upon me, unblinking. One-hundred and twenty one people sat in a semi-circle, barely breathing, staring at…what?

A child? A murderer? A monster?

Tumult and chaos reigned in what was left of my overtired, overworked mind. Having known little but fear and hatred from my fellow man, I did not know how to translate the expression plastered on every face. Were they about to descend upon me? Drive me out of the theatre I had built and loved? Hang me from the mouldings? Burn my works?

Rip off my mask and reveal the thing that I was?

Signore Fraioli moved, and my body jerked involuntarily. He was standing, stepping forward…bowing. To me.

"Maestro," he murmured, rising from a bow so deep his face had flushed. "Please, you accept my most humblest apology. I am honored to please be allowed to play your work." Then bowed again. My adversary was defeated.

Those who remember that day will tell you that I majestically sat and allowed the man to stew over the fire he'd lit. That is what they remember, and it has pleased me to allow them to continue believing it. But I am much older now, a famous man, and I no longer feel the need to guard that image. The truth is that I sat there gathering my wits, trying to comprehend that my destruction was not at hand. Thankfully, I was stricken dumb as well as motionless. One of my "_Hnnh"_ moments would have spoiled it entirely.

As it was, my faculties of movement, speech, and thought returned simultaneously. I rose carefully from my seat and returned the cello to its owner. Please don't think me any more mad than I am, but I am sure I felt its regret at leaving my hands. I looked again at my orchestra, and though I still did not recognize the emotion on their faces, I knew it was not contempt.

"Are there any others," I said, projecting mastery with a hint of malice, "who wish to question the worth or the _playability _of my work?"

I gave them generous time to answer – I truly wanted to know. No one so much as scratched an itch. I turned again to my vanquished foe – the first ever to survive the vanquishing unmarked.

"You, sir. I _should_ have you tossed to the curb."

I glared, he bowed.

"At the very least, you should be demoted. You do not deserve to be principal cellist in this orchestra."

More bowing. It occurred to me that the man was groveling. I was pleased.

"But there is no time to find a replacement. You will simply have to do."

"Thank you, Maestro." He would have said more, but I stopped him with a flick of my wrist. The glow of conquest was fading; now I mostly felt a need to disappear back into the safety of my little rooms. That, and to find Christine.

"Know that your continued employment here rests entirely upon your performance of this piece." I glowered at each section. "That goes for all of you!"

I stalked to the stage, turning back once more to point a deadly finger at Reyer.

"Especially you, sir."

And then I disappeared into the shadows, blessing their cool privacy.

I smelled her perfume even before I reached the door of my study. It is not that she was given to over-application, it is only that one detects first the thing one desires most.

She was sitting in my chair, reading some little book. After I closed the door behind myself, she looked up and smiled that soft little smile that has never ceased to rule my heart.

"That went well, don't you think?" she asked.


	36. Dawn

"How did you get in here?"

That was not what I intended to say. I meant to tell her how angelic she looked with her feet tucked up in my chair and her hair escaping in wisps from her kerchief. But the assassin in me was nowhere near dead. One's hideout should be inviolable – not that Christine's presence necessarily constituted a violation.

"I wanted to see how it would go." She set her book on my desk, one half hanging off to keep her page, and stretched mightily. "It just seemed like I should be there, you know? Just in case…"

"In case what?" I suppose I was still a bit on edge from the confrontation in the theatre. I could not keep the suspicion from creeping in. Had she doubted me?

She shrugged unconcernedly and stood up.

"In case you needed me."

A couple of steps brought her close enough to touch.

"But you did just fine without me. While you were so wrapped up in your music, while _everyone_ was so wrapped up in your music, I just walked through the doors, down the aisle, and through your little door. No one saw me. I almost didn't make it; you were amazing…"

I reached up to touch the strands of hair that brushed her cheek, but she stopped my hand. For a brief piece of eternity, she stood there holding my hand, staring at it.

"Christine?"

"I keep taking them off, and they just keep being there." Her Voice was a low whisper, barely audible.

"What?"

"These." she said, stripping off my gloves. "I take them off, and you put them back on. It's like a fairy-tale curse or something." She held them out, like evidence of some dreadful crime and then dropped them on the table.

"But…"

"If you want to touch me," she murmured, "then _touch_ _me_. Don't put some creepy piece of leather between us."

I looked at my hands, then I looked at her cheek. Once before, I'd dared to touch her hand. Once before, I'd dared to kiss her cheek. Both times, I felt like a thief in the Guggenheim, stealing something beyond price – and dipping it in slime. Here was an open invitation to do what I dreamed, but the sensation of the forbidden fruit lingered. When she said she loved me, when she put her arms around me in acceptance, I'd thought my cup full. How could I have this as well?

"Christine, it is not… I could not possibly…" There had to be a right phrase, a perfect choice of words that would make her see.

"It is, and you can." She smiled, and I suddenly felt as though I were standing too close to a bonfire. "I see it in your eyes."

"Surely you can't want this, Christine." Why was I arguing? I certainly did not want to convince her of my position, but my mouth _would_ keep speaking. "There has to be a limit to your kindness; pity can only carry one so far."

"Pity?" Her eyes narrowed. "Is _that_ what you think this is?"

I think my heart stopped. Oh, that moment. I shall never forget as long as I live the sudden realization that I'd taken a step too far. There is a point at which self-deprecation can become insult.

"You think I've spent days and days down here, working and training and busting my butt with you out of _pity_?" Christine shook her head. "Nadir warned me that you were a self-centered man. I thought _'Hey, only natural, he's been through a lot'_ but I never really thought about what it meant."

"I only meant that hands like mine shouldn't touch…"

"Hands like yours? But it's _your_ hands I want! When you got so angry with me that day, you said, _'these are my hands, this is my face, this is my head…and the rest of me's pretty much the same'_. And when I came back from Nadir's, I told you I loved you. Right?" She was still holding my hands, tightly, so I could not pull away without some violence. "Right?"

"Yes," Her eyes demanded an answer, and I was completely at her whim. I could face death without fear and torture without pleading – but I could not withstand Christine's displeasure. "Yes, you did."

"I didn't say that I loved _your music_, or _your voice_, or _what you've done for me_. It feels like I've told you this before." Her tone changed, softened. She lifted my hand almost to her cheek – but not quite, it hovered millimeters away. "And I guess I'll have to tell you again and again before you really believe me. I love _you_, Erik. But just in case you still aren't putting two and two together, let me spell it out for you. I'm a woman, you're a man, and I want to be touched! So if you want to…" She trailed off, and I understood that the rest was left to me.

It was an act of sheer will to move my uncovered hand to her face, but once it was done, I could not conceive of touching her any other way. I had taken her hand in mine many times over the last few weeks, but only in the gloves. She had taken my bare hands in hers, but I'd always been too mesmerized by the fact of what she was doing to fully appreciate the feeling. Once or twice, as I recalled, she'd even given me tiny kisses.

And that broke the floodgates. I was touching her hair, her face, her hands in a dreamy sort of ecstasy. It was sheerest heaven to let my fingers sift through her long, long hair. And as I gently worked my fingers through a stubborn little tangle, it dawned on me. She honestly wanted me to touch her. She was not permitting me a liberty, or allowing 'the poor beast' a moment of happiness out of sympathy.

In this new blaze of morning light, I could see _and believe in_ so many things: I was an architect, a brilliant composer, a musician unparalleled. This marvelous woman loved me. I was about to break onto the music scene like a tidal wave, driving all lesser composers before me. I was a reformed man. True, true, and true. It was all true and clear as glass.

Many times between then and now, that light has dimmed for awhile. I do not think it lasted more than a few hours that first time before the abject darkness returned and I felt debilitating shame and remorse for my uninhibited actions. But once a sleeper has wakened and seen the beautiful world shining around him, he can never truly fall into deep slumber again.

It was not merely a realization of self-worth. My new vision meant more than the empty 'self-esteem' lauded by school-teachers and therapists. This new understanding meant that I could love Christine as fully and passionately as I liked, and that was a wonderful thing in itself.

But it had another meaning, more ephemeral and stranger to me than the others. It meant that the world, from my family right down to the scum on the streets, was _wrong_ for rejecting me because of an accident of birth.

But at that moment in time I could not have cared less about the injustice of the world's rejection. Christine had taken my mask – _again_ – and I suddenly found myself kissing her deeply, my hands deep in her hair and my eyes closed in perfect bliss.

There is no nectar so sweet, no drug so intoxicating, as the lips of a loving woman…


	37. An Interruption

I'd never understood the allure of women, why so many of my contemporaries fell victim to their charms and more often than not, to their nooses (apparently there is more that one way to 'tie the knot'. In my old profession, I quickly learned that a woman was either an obstacle to a goal, a weak spot in an opponent's armor, or a reason to run and hide; they were often deadly in ways no man ever dreamed of being. And abandon romantic thoughts of the lovely black-widow assassin…she really doesn't exist. Most of them were horse-faced and bull-necked, with temperaments like constipated wolverines. Once, in Mazenderan, I met one who nearly took my head off…

But I digress.

The point is that I had never thought of a woman in this way: as a potential companion and friend. What a happy surprise to find that I was mistaken about the fair sex!

All I must do to remember every detail of that first true kiss is close my eyes, as I am doing now, and it is though I am there again. I am tall; she clung to my neck and leaned against me to take the weight from her toes. Her breath was warm on my cheek and her lips were soft and moist against mine. I could taste her; she had had her daily cup of honeyed tea before coming to me and the flavor of peppermint and orange blossom lingered sweetly. It was at once soothing and exciting; I hardly knew what to do with myself. I remember how she sighed when we parted, such a delightful little sound with more breath than tone.

Everyone speaks of my Fantasia in B flat, how the opening is so delicately charming. You have heard it? Of course. That opening – it is nothing but an embellishment of Christine's little sigh, and it can be played only on the wooden flute. She laughs whenever she hears it; it is one of the little jokes we have together.

When at last we stood apart and I had caught my breath, I looked closely at her, searching for some sign that she regretted such intimate contact with me. There were none. She was breathless and blushing, a smile I can only describe as coquettish dimpling her cheeks. She was looking directly at me, at my face, and flirting with her sparkling eyes.

"You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do that." She reached up and wound the ties of my cloak around her finger. I watched in fascinated awareness of what was – for me – an obvious metaphor. She gave a little tug and it came loose, dropping the heavy thing in a sable puddle on the floor.

"Not nearly as long as I have…" I began and then stopped, too self-conscious to go on.

"You have too much self-control, then. I never would have guessed." Now she was unknotting my necktie, which soon found a home in the middle of the cloak-puddle.

"What are you…"

"Making you comfortable," she grinned. "Now, hush."

Though I was certainly not comfortable, I did hush, and her fingers found my buttons. She had undone three and was starting on the fourth when the thought of what she was revealing bubbled up in my mind like bad swamp gas. All joyous epiphanies aside, I could not countenance the image. Hardly believing my own actions, I stopped her hands. She looked at me quizzically, her upraised eyebrows asking '_why_'.

"I'm sorry, Christine. I can't….I just can't let you do that." I would have explained more; perhaps apologized myself into a nice, deep hole, but a sound from the theatre stopped me.

§Someone was playing a violin. Someone was playing my music on a violin - or a cruel parody thereof. It started and stopped, one bar repeated incorrectly with different mistakes each time. We heard a female voice muttering angrily in frustration accompanied by the stamp of a foot, and then the repetitions began again. I recognized the stylistic touch of the bow on the strings. It was my principal violinist – my concertmaster - attempting a read-through. We'd heard everyone else leave, but she'd apparently lingered to play with the new music.

Please do not misunderstand; Giselle is an incredibly talented woman. Incredibly. World-renowned. It is her genius that leads my orchestra, and I have been pleased with her from the moment she auditioned. But she was attempting one of the more difficult pieces in the collection for the first time. She had neither the feel of the music nor the sense of the whole. The result was beyond painful. She may as well have come into my sanctuary and applied a dentist's drill to my eardrums. I cringed and let go of Christine's hands to plaster my palms over my ears, all thoughts of shame and modesty erased. The noise easily penetrated that feeble and bony barrier. It was inescapable; I began to feel as though I would go completely mad, then and there. §

Thankfully, my perceptive darling realized the source of my distress. She wrapped my cloak around my shoulders, tied on my mask, and firmly set my hat on my head. Once I was decently shrouded, she dragged me in the last direction I wished to go – towards the stage. It was the only exit she knew of, and I was too incapacitated to instruct her otherwise. With stealth I would never have guessed her to possess, she maneuvered my huddled frame through the actors' stage door, down the hall, and out a side exit. It was only when that door thumped shut that I was able to move under my own power.

"Are…you ok?" She asked, cautiously.

I looked back towards the door and shook my head.

"It will get better, you know." She waited, but I had not yet recovered sufficiently to speak. "They have to learn it first. Be patient."

Sage advice that I was hardly in a state of mind to take.

"What's tomorrow," I asked.

She blinked, confused. "Wednesday…"

I moaned and plopped down on the ground in an undignified heap.

"What, Erik? What's wrong?" Christine knelt beside me and took my hand.

"Wednesday…" I managed to moan, "_First _r_ehearsal!_"

"Oh…" she said, and then with understanding, "Oh! Oh, no. You can't be here for that – you'll kill people!"

Despondent, I groaned my agreement and buried my head in my arms. She was right: if I heard any more butchering of my works, we'd be lucky to have a chamber orchestra remaining. I began to reconsider this debut of my works. Perhaps a posthumous release would have been wiser… §

"Well, we can't have that, can we? You'll just have to stay with me for a little while."

§§§ This section was inspired by a review by D. Jinx, who has solved a rather difficult plot-point for me, and MadLizzy whose reviews rock my socks! §§§


	38. Make Yourself at Home

"Stay with you?" The kiss, the broken music, and the prospect of living with a pipeline directly to the rehearsals in which my music was soon to be crucified: all of these had conspired to make me rather stupid.

"Right. What do you need? I can run back in there and get it – whatever it is. She's thinking about what she's doing; she won't notice…"

"In your home?"

"Right. Toothbrush? A change of clothes? Your pillow? I have extras, and blankets, but…"

"For…multiple nights?" When my emotions consisted of rage, fear, and satisfaction things were much simpler. None of those is similar to the others, and each is easily recognizable, even when there is overlap. Now… a stew of emotions had simmered the full spectrum of human feelings and I could not isolate the flavor of any of them.

"Right." She peered at me a moment, one eyebrow raised. "Erik, my love, if you don't want to, just say so. Right now you look like a fish on a hook."

I felt like a fish on a hook, dangling and gasping.

"I couldn't possibly…impose on you."

"Don't be silly. It's my pleasure." She paused to swallow and I noted that her face looked a bit more pink than usual. "Really."

"But Reyer will need instruction. _Lots _of instruction. And the orchestra – I must find some way to _encourage them_ to practice a bit more than usual. And Debienne and Poligny will never manage without…"

But Erik, they're _the managers._ That's what they do. We left explicit instructions in their office."

"_But they're mere puppets! Fools!" _ I shouted, finally running out of excuses and, therefore, my fragile calm. "I hired them so that I could have them work my will, not theirs!"

For a moment, Christine said nothing; she only cocked an eyebrow and crossed her arms.

"And a business owner who hires fools… what do you call him, my love?"

"I…" Well, that last had shut me up quite nicely. While I admired her quick wit, I was also mildly tempted to strangle her. As I contemplated strangling her, I simultaneously was appreciating her wisdom and the depth of my love for her. It was many, many years before I was told that this particular brew of feelings is not psychopathic – it is a perfectly normal sentiment for any member of a romantic dyad.

"Ok, then. I have a phone and a car. Call Reyer and set up an appointment with him. I will then drive you to it. Remember, the whole idea here is to get you _away _from the place so the orchestra has a chance to develop on its own, without any mishaps involving blood and death."

While she was delivering this speech, I had noticed something. I was outside the opera house, sitting in the parking lot. I was sitting outside like any other man, having a little spat with my...

"Christine?"

She heaved an exasperated sigh and looked up at me. Ah, she looked beautiful when she was annoyed!

"What."

"Does all this mean that you are my girlfriend now?"

Now, patient listener, I must ask you: what do you think she did then? You'll never guess, so I shall have to tell you.

She took a breath, stared at me for a few seconds, blinked, and then burst out laughing. Her laughter bounced and echoed throughout the parking lot. She laughed until she had to hold her stomach. She laughed until tears streamed from her eyes and she plopped to the curb. She kept laughing until she was no longer making sound, except for the occasional desperate gasp for air. I watched, completely bewildered, until her quaking laughter died off into the occasional spurt of giggles.

She gave herself a minute to recover and then stood up to take my hand warmly in hers. Every sign of displeasure was gone from her face. She pulled me close, threw her arms around my neck and kissed me long and tenderly.

"Oh, my love," though her laughter had faded, her voice was still full of smiles, "Come on."

She pulled me across the parking lot to her car and I followed easily, still confused. I'd asked what I believed to be a perfectly reasonable question, and she'd exploded. It was past my understanding. Was she laughing at me because I'd made some terrible gaffe? Had I assumed something I should not? Even after I climbed into her passenger seat and we were well on our way down the road, I could not stop staring at her still-smiling face, searching for an answer.

We pulled into a driveway – apparently she'd moved out of her old apartment and into a little townhouse – where she parked and waited for me to get out of the car. Upon exiting, I found her again taking my hand and gazing up at me.

"Yes, Erik. I suppose I am you '_girlfriend'_ now, but I think that at our age we should say '_significant other'_, don't you?" She smiled and winked.

Her townhouse was small, but prettily decorated. I now understood what Nadir meant when he referred to "a woman's touch" with regards to decorating. Christine's preferences leaned towards soft neutrals complimented by even softer pastels. There was bamboo everywhere – she later explained to me that bamboo was extraordinarily strong and fast growing. She never bought any other kind of furniture. "_Better for the environment_," she said.

In the living room she showed me the couch that would be my bed for as long as I stayed with her. I must admit that after that one night together this was a disappointing turn of events, but she made it up so nicely with a pillow, sheets, and blankets that I could hardly complain. The undeniable and amazing thing was that I was in Christine's home, with Christine, just the two of us.

"Make yourself at home," she said, and I gingerly settled onto the couch.

She puttered in the kitchen, making tea. I sat on my sofa-turned-bed and fell into a state of deep contemplation. It was not concern for my theatre, or my painful past, or even the upcoming debut of my music that so captivated my thoughts. I was taking in the wholly domestic scene around me and wondering:

What was happily-ever-after supposed to look like, anyway?


	39. Home Is

I have bedded down for the night (or day) on sidewalks, on down mattresses with silken sheets, in gutters, in theatre seats, and on forest floors. I have taken rest in some of the safest and most dangerous situations imaginable. I have sought repose at all hours, in all states of dress and undress...

But had I ever slept?

Until that night, I don't believe I ever truly had.

Christine plied me with tea and honeyed toast. She soothed my nerves, reassured me that all would be well, that I could bear the strain. She laughed at my rigidity until I relaxed in self-defense. When the time came, she kissed my forehead and whispered "Sleep well, my love."

She whispered it like a sweet secret.

Once alone, I lay on the sofa under a blanket that smelled softly floral, listening to the sounds of my beloved preparing for sleep. She brushed her teeth and her hair, changed her clothes, and used the restroom (is that too personal? I suppose it might be…). It all seemed more than personal then. It felt positively _intimate_. Never mind that I could not see her; since when has _sight_ benefited me? It was the sound of her little routines of living that thrilled me.

When the click of her lamp finally announced that she had retired for the evening, I dared to close my eyes. There were constant sounds, alien to me, but perfectly comfortable – a clock, the furnace turning on, her bedsprings creaking as she turned over. I only remember envying her pillow before sleep took me quickly and irresistibly.

Real sleep, deep and dreamless; I was in the blackness of oblivion, brought on by a lifetime of wary catnapping. Morning (or should we say noon) found me well-rested and thoroughly disoriented. Many minutes passed before I could drag myself up from the swamp of unconsciousness. It was the smell of my resting place – her smell – that reminded me that I was in heaven.

She was already up and about; I heard her bustling in other rooms, trying to be quiet and quietly failing. For a moment I feared to move, feared to break the spell. Then I saw the clock.

All happy thoughts of domestic bliss fled my suddenly tormented mind. Soon, _too_ soon, Reyer would attempt to drag my orchestra through an initial playing of my works. I had not called him. The copious notes I had made for him sat uselessly on my desk. Giselle's miserable attempts the day before assured me that many of my musicians would have at least approached the music…badly. Could Reyer possibly do any better in interpretation than they?

My head met the arm of my 'bed' repeatedly. No…no…no, of _course_ he could do no better! Had I not specifically instructed him not to dare to interpret my work? Oh, this was bad. This was very, very bad. This was…

"Eric…Ehhhriiiick…" She sung my name, momentarily distracting me. "Are you going to sleep all day?"

I sat up hurriedly, irrationally opposed to the idea that she should find me lying down.

"No. I'm awake." Strange, this balance between joy and neuroticism!

"Come on out then, sleepy-head. It's lunchtime and you've got a lot to do today, I'm sure."

Sleepy-head? She actually called me…

I leapt from bed, donned my routine attire and rushed through the kitchen. Christine looked up from the spinach she was shopping and quirked an eyebrow.

"Going somewhere?"

"The theatre," I panted, "The theatre! I have to get to the theatre! I must be there! I cannot leave them to work their will on my music…it is simply unconscionable. Un_think_able. I cannot…"

My Christine worked hard for many years, waiting tables and cleaning. Her hands and forearms had an uncanny strength as she gripped my shoulders.

"Erik. Sit. Down."

She _put_ me in a seat and locked my panicked gazed with hers.

"We talked about this. _Call_ Reyer."

"I am the composer of that work, and I tell you…" I was stern, almost to the point of harshness. She was unmoved. From her pocket she produced a tiny cellular phone and punched a few buttons.

"There. _Guide_ Reyer all you want."

What choice had I? By the time I figured out how I was going to resist her, I heard my conductor answer the phone. Under my captor's watchful eye, I gave my commands and recommendations. Fortunately for everyone, Reyer meekly accepted each command with a mild, "Yes sir." When we were done, Christine retrieved her phone and shoved it back in her pocket.

"Feel better?"

I glared at her. If looks could kill, I would have completely obliterated my dearest darling where she sat. Happily, my looks could not even mildly discompose Christine. She was a steel blade encased in a fluffy pillow sham.

It was in that moment, however, that I understood something fundamental to my being and to my sanity.

As lovely as this place was, as comfortable as I had been that night, I could not live so far from music's home. Much as I would have liked to, I could not come to Christine. The romantic thing, I suppose, would be to say that my home was where _she_ was. The brutal thing would be to say that my home was only where the music lived. Though neither would be a lie, neither is precisely the truth:

The true thing is that my home exists on that delicate silken thread where the two come together.

**A/N: I am sorry for the long, long, long delay. I've gotten sick, and a new job. Between the two, I haven't had a spare breath for writing. Fear not! I have never yet abandoned a story.**


	40. Sanctified

I knew this as I went about making up my bed. I knew this as I joined her in her living room for a heavenly hour of singing together. I knew when she leaned in and stole my mask and a kiss. While she cooked dinner, while we ate, when we sat talking about this and that – all the while, I knew that I could not stay. But neither could I speak.

You see, my time at Nadir's was restful. He respected me and my need for privacy. I ranted; he advised. When I left, I was a better man with a friend and a new lease on life. But when I left, Nadir was happy enough to let me go and I was glad to be returning to my own cocoon.

But here, I experienced a novel thing. Christine _wanted_ me in her home, wanted me near. She wanted _me_. When I entered a room, her face brightened – whether I wore the mask or not. She leaned on my arm while we sang. She sat near me at the table, touching my hand or knee as we ate. There was even a moment…dare I tell it? There was even a moment, when I kissed her soft cheek, in which I believed that if my music were silenced, she would still want me near. For myself, just me, just Erik…whatever I might be.

And I wanted her.

When you think of 'desire' – there, see your expression? You think of X-ratings and soap operas. You must imagine again, think again. There are other desires than lust and greed. There is this: the pinnacle of sweet dreaming. Her face, her Voice, her scent, her touch, her kiss, her look… And I could have her. Anytime the butterflies in my stomach became too rowdy, I could seek her soothing hands. I had been the thirsting man in Hell. Now I dwelt at the lip of the well.

So I told myself that I would speak tomorrow.

But the strange thing about tomorrow is that it never comes. You think it will, but when tomorrow should have come, it turns out to be _today_ all over again. So tomorrow became tomorrow became tomorrow, and I still had not spoken.

As it turned out, it was good that I stayed silent.

Four days passed quietly in this dream that seemed the completion of all I'd ever wanted. Of course I was happy; how could I be otherwise? At least, I believed myself happy. But there was this ache, like a sound so low it can be heard better by the bones than the ears, which nagged at me. I bid it leave me be, but it persisted. I tried to ignore it, but I knew it too well. This was not my place. Not my home. Not my territory. The only musical instruments were our Voices and the CD player. (Devilish contraption! A casket, I call it. A casket for music dead and gone, haunted by its own ghost!) Worse, there was nothing for me to do but the dishes.

And while I sat in this cushiony domestic limbo, who knew what those morons were fiddling with in _my _symphony hall? I could only imagine; fervently I tried to keep the thoughts from my mind, but I could only keep imagining. It was late on that fourth night, when visions of post-modern furniture and high-school field trips were dancing vilely in my head, that I heard the susserance of bare feet on carpet. Little, bare feet tiptoeing into my room.

"Erik," she whispered, "are you awake?"

For a miserably long moment, I did not know what – or even whether – to answer.

"Yes," was my deceptively calm reply.

"Good," she said. And that was all.

It was very dark in the room; when I opened my eyes, all I could see was her silhouette – and suddenly I was convinced that I was again deep in dreams. For here she was, floating toward me in the flowing nightgown of my original fantasy. Christine took my hand and tugged me from my sofa. Deciding that this was, indeed, nothing but dream, I resolved to go along with whatever dream-Christine might do.

She led me to the door of her bedroom – and through it. And here was the bed of my fantasy, lit only in moonlight, piled high with pillows and a down comforter. She led me to her bedside, made herself comfortable, then beckoned me to join her. With that little crook of her finger, she destroyed the illusion that I might be dreaming. Even in my dreams, I could never imagine such a thing. I might imagine her sleeping sweetly, or resting with a book…but to see her beckon me to her bed?

Never.

Oh patient listener! You know that we had slept together before. But now there was no exhaustion. We were both awake. Truly, I was more awake in that instant, more aware of my awakeness, than ever before. And unless my eyes deceived me, there was more than a little sparkle in her eyes…

What to do?

Beautiful woman, beckoning finger.

What the _deuce_ to do?

She tired of my indecision before I puzzled out my options. Leaning out precariously, she again took my hand and pulled me into bed. Fortunately, my knees unlocked before I could fall ignominiously onto my face. There was nothing to do but slide under the covers, where I found that her nightgown was, indeed, lace.

Christine slid close to me, molding her body to mine. I lay flat, staring up at the ceiling, not daring to turn my head and look at her. To do so would be to break the spell, I was certain.

I felt the warmth of her face next to mine. She whispered, and her breath tickled my ear.

"Don't be nervous…"

I did turn to look at her then. Don't be nervous! I was lying there in the striped cotton pajama set she'd bought for me, unable to believe in the reality of the moment, praying only that my shaking would not make her seasick… and she says "Don't be nervous…"

I opened my mouth to speak, but Christine's little finger stopped the words before they left my lips. That finger left my lips to reappear on my chest. Where she began fiddling with the buttons. Not so long before, I had stopped her from doing this very thing. Here in the darkness, surrounded by her scent, I hadn't the will to stop her again. Soon, she had finished with the last one, laying bare my chest.

Delicately, delicately, she touched me; her bare hand caressed the obscenely protruding bones of my sternum and ribcage. She was propped up on one elbow, looking down at my pathetic excuse for a body. At this angle the moonlight was behind her – I could not see her expression. All I could do was lie there and feel the excruciatingly sweet sensation of her fingers. I knew she could feel the weird texture of my unworldly flesh. I was hideously aware that her hand stroked a torso once compared unfavorably with a cadaver.

And then she bent down to kiss me. Not on the lips or the cheek or the forehead. No. She kissed my chest, just over my heart.

That moved me. Hardly in control of myself, I pushed her up and away.

"No…" It was all I could say. "No, Christine, no."

There was a moment's stillness and she returned to hover over me. I could see her expression now. It was that old look of sweet compassion – the one that, to this day, drains my strength and usurps my will.

"Erik, Erik," she whispered. "Everyone needs…deserves…to be loved."

"But it's disgu…"

"Let go." It was a soft command. I wanted to obey, really I did, but my past taunted me. '_Never, never,_ it chanted in the mad corners of my mind, '_never, never.' _

"Please. Let me love you," Christine entreated, and I succumbed.

Just as her Voice had cleansed my name and made it holy, so her lips sanctified my scarred and emaciated body. She kissed me, every inch, from neck to toe - and when she was done, she curled up against me with one arm draped across my chest and one leg entwined with mine.

I had not moved in the slightest, and yet my entire being vibrated with such a surge of joy and pleasure that I thought I'd burst. There was nothing I could say or do; there was only my tingling skin and her blissful warmth. A long, soft, ecstatic sigh escaped me.

"I am going to teach you, my love," she murmured sleepily. "There is so much more I have to show you…"

No, this was not my place – but I was entirely her creature, and no place would be right without her. I had to leave, but the question of what to do was suddenly and powerfully answered. I would simply have to take her along, wherever I went. Forever.


	41. Scheming

I turned to Christine and smiled. There was no other response needed to her promises for my future education. We both knew that I wanted to learn whatever she wanted to teach me – especially if said education involved more of this…this enchanting interweaving of the physical and the emotional. She seemed satisfied with my smile and gradually drifted to sleep.

I studied her sleeping face in the pale light and felt a benign envy. Though Christine assured me that she'd made many a mistake in her earlier days, I knew that none of them had scarred her conscience. Even past the age of thirty, innocence clung to and smoothed her cheek and brow so that age barely touched her. Of course, it could be no other way. Had she not been so pure of heart, my presence could only have further corrupted her. I could not have found in her a saving grace and a cleansing stream; I would have been her end.

But the thing I was contemplating – this notion of forever – began to seem more egregiously wrong the longer I looked at her. You will certainly think me foolish, but it was Thumbelina, a children's story, that denied me my sleep on that otherwise perfect night - poor Thumbelina, beautiful and tiny, taken against her will by the odious toad and locked away in darkness until she escaped. Was I that toad? Would I take this angel and bind her to me forever, or at least until she came to her senses and fled into the light?

But I wanted her. I _needed_ her. Without her, what would there have been left for me but more emptiness, more hiding, and a cold death? She was _mine_. She had come to me of her own free will.

I have said it before. I am not a good man. A good man, believing as I did that he was a death-trap for the lady, would have set her free at once. He never would have schemed until dawn as I did. Nor would he have followed through with his evil plans, immediately following a breakfast of French toast and apples.

"Don't you want syrup?" Christine asked. She had just finished flooding her plate with Karo syrup and was brandishing the bottle at me.

"What you did last night…" I began, and then faltered. In my mind's eye, I saw Thumbelina being led away into the dank, dark tunnel. Poor little thing…but then, hadn't _I _been dragged into the dark? Hadn't I been taken against my will, kicking and screaming?

She stopped slicing her toast into bite-sized pieces squishy with sticky syrup to look up at me, her head tilted to one side in bird-like curiosity. Clearly, she expected me to finish my sentence.

"Ahem…what you did last night was amazing. I just wanted to thank you." No, no, _no! _ That was not at all what I meant to say! My expression must have been entirely incongruous with my words.

Christine only blinked.

"And to ask you…if I might…someday…return the favor?" I amended, trying to make myself coherent. It still wasn't what I meant to say, but at least it was a step in that direction.

Then she laughed, a half-shy, half-suggestive sound. "Actually, my love, I was disappointed last night when you did not." And she went on eating her breakfast, just like that.

After breakfast, to return to the original point, I borrowed her cell phone and retired to the patio, closing the door behind me. It would not do to have my beloved overhear these conversations! I tried to remember all the old numbers, all the old names; my connections, my suppliers. Some were gone out of business, some were just gone, but there were still enough in the business to get what I needed.

I paced with my ear glued to the phone for the better part of three hours. Each time I connected, there was a breathless pause. They were terrified to hear from me. I suppose they thought me long dead; to them I was a terrible ghost rising from the dead to call in old favors. But, one by one, they acquiesced to my demands. I was a past master in the trade, and they knew it.

When all necessary arrangements were made, I returned to Christine's side, feigning innocence. In truth, I feigned it badly, but it was fine. Any nervousness that seeped through was easily accounted for by the night's obligations.

You see, now that my most desperate problem was dealt with, the old problem loomed. Tonight was the second rehearsal and I had to be there.

No protective composer's urge, this. I truly _had_ to be there. Reyer had informed me that, because the vocal pieces were the simplest for the orchestra, he had decided to practice them first. He felt it would give my musicians a "sense of accomplishment" which he felt sure would engender "strong motivation" to work on the rest. No matter how I scoffed at the idea, he meekly persisted. I will never understand how the man managed to bow, scrape, cower, and put his foot down all at the same time.

Christine was actually excited about the rehearsal. She hurried me from room to room, task to task, getting ready for our debut as a duet. I admit that I dragged my feet. Normally I would have jumped at the chance to sing with my angel, but this was no private rehearsal. I would be exposed before a crowd, expected to perform, and judged. Worse, the 'crowd' would be butchering my art all the while.

"This is going to be so much fun!" she squealed as she pinned her hair.

She answered my disbelieving stare with a casual shrug.

"After all, Erik, they've heard me sing – but they've never heard me sing _with you_." She leaned against me, wrapping her arms around my neck.

"And that's such a privilege?" I queried, cracking a smile as the worst of my jitters calmed. She was flattering me and, never having been the recipient of much praise, I was thoroughly susceptible.

"False modesty! It doesn't work for you at all, Erik. I think I liked your invisible arrogance better." She stroked my cheek and grinned.

"I could disappear again, if you like…"

Suddenly all the girlish good humor was gone. Christine's arms tightened around my neck, squeezing until I could barely suck air.

"Never, Erik." She transferred her arms from my neck to my middle, and I finally found oxygen – only to lose it again when she continued, "Never leave me."

By the time we began the drive back to my demesnes, her humor had returned. She was laughing and joking and singing little pieces of the music. It was the sort of thing that normally would have been a balm to my wretched soul, but I barely heard her. My ears still rang with her words.

"_Never leave me."_

"_Never leave me."_

"_Never leave me."_

"_Never leave…"_


	42. Rehearsal

It was my habit to leave and enter the theatre (if the few times I'd done so in an eleven year period could be called 'habit') through access and emergency doors in the wings and rear. Guests used the front door. I, the master, came in through the back. This time, though, I would pass through the half-arch of one open door. I would walk through the place with my head up, uncloaked, visible to all. And what would they say, all those musicians and staff, when they saw me?

What would they do?

Already, I'd been spotted by support staff coming in for the evening shift. Ever aware, I saw them draw together to whisper and point. Christine noticed me noticing them. She looked them over, and I saw her lovely eyes consider and dismiss them. She wrapped her arm firmly around mine and continued to shepherd me home. When we arrived at the foot of the steps I gently but firmly freed my arm from hers.

What joy, what sorrow, and what _fear_ I felt as we stood below the great arching double-doors!

Those doors... Though I never used them myself, I had designed them as a message to my patrons, my musicians, and my staff. It was critical that the first message any visitor received upon arriving at the symphony hall was one of awesome majesty. These doors were that message. They were grand, fourteen feet and six inches tall, made of ebony and bound with intricately worked bronze; I'd had to contrive a special hydraulic system so that they did not wound people banging shut behind them. The stairs leading up to them were no less imposing. They were broad and steep, sculpted of marble and inlaid with bronze in a pattern matching the doors.

Christine regarded me with concern as I stood silently staring upwards, but made no move to interrupt my reverie. Perhaps she understood, in that uncanny way she has, the significance of this occasion. Maybe she could see that entering by the front door actually meant leaving – leaving a way of life I'd clung to for better than a decade. Maybe she understood that I had to do that leaving alone.

Whether _she_ understood or not, I understood perfectly. When I finally lifted my foot and set it on the iridescent marble of the first step, it seemed certain that the earth would tremble and the heavens crack open. When they did not, I sighed – whether in relief or disappointment, I don't know. By the time I wrapped my fingers around the cold bronze handle, I had almost come to terms with this understanding. As I pulled open the heavy door to reveal the gold-and-silk draped interior, I accepted my fate.

While I stood gaping at the foyer I had designed, but rarely entered, Christine slipped in under my arm. She stood facing me, her back reflected in the massive mirror, and spread her arms wide.

"Welcome home," she proclaimed.

_Maybe_, I thought. _Maybe welcome, maybe not. _But I put on my best smile (and a pathetic, twisted thing it is – don't you agree?) and offered her my arm, which she took with a little giggle. Like a real gentleman escorting a lady to the opera, I led her to the stage.

The orchestra was there, tuning up. To the unpracticed ear, that sound is a cacophony. To me, it is the sound of the seraphim conversing. I led Christine down the aisle, glad that we had not been noticed. Of course, I was glad too soon. Reyer looked up from the sheet music he was arranging, and when he looked, they looked.

It was oppressively silent. Two hundred and forty-two eyes stared, two hundred and forty-two hands stopped their tasks. A sudden desire to flee to the catwalks nearly overcame me, until I realized that Christine had straightened and her smile had brightened.

With pride.

And I remembered who had written the score gracing each musician's music stand.

And I remembered who had sought out their talent and lured it here.

And I remembered who had brought the world's foremost soprano's voice into being.

And I remembered who was on my arm.

What strength I found in memory! I pulled myself to my full height, then bowed to my orchestra. I received more than one seated bow in return. My Italian friend from the week before stood to greet us and he was followed in form by my concert mistress and my principal oboist. Reyer inclined his head to us before tapping the stand with his baton. The orchestra turned to him and the moment ended.

Christine led me to our place in the wings with a mature grace that nearly threw me. I had become so used to thinking of her as my little ingénue that I'd forgotten that she was a great woman in the eyes of the music world. Once we were out of sight, though, that veneer melted away. She turned to me with excitement animating every feature of her pretty face.

"That was great! Absolutely fantastic! You…"

And then the music began.

No, it was not perfect. It was not even a shell of the great work that would be. But as I had heard the promise in Christine's untaught Voice, so I heard the promise in this early rendering of my works. The artists had apparently been impressed with my cello debut, enough so that they'd obviously practiced. And it was clear that Reyer had taken my advice to heart; the filter of his less-capable mind was obvious, but so was the shadow of my intent.

To my credit, I listened for almost five full minutes before…well…

I do not remember precisely how I ended up standing at the head of the orchestra with Reyer's baton in my hand. All I remember is that I was suddenly there and he was not.

The music thundered in my head. It was electricity and I, its conduit. Soon, the baton went flying. I needed both hands and all my fingers to pull from my musicians what they were trying so hard to give. _MORE!_ My left hand screamed to the first violins. _Hush_…my right soothed the basses, celli, and violas. _Tempo, tempo._ My whole body became a metronome. It was something I could never have explained to Reyer; I had to show him. I had to show them all. And they were responding. I heard the music build, heard it coming with more strength, more honesty. My passion was becoming their passion…

Silence stopped my frenzy. Absolute silence. They could not help but be silent; it was time for the vocalists, and the vocalists had missed their cue.

Reeling like a drunken man, I turned and stumbled down from the dais, feeling drained and weak. Reyer met me halfway, grasping his baton (rescued from an air conditioning vent only in the nick of time). He stepped close and took my arm. I could not meet his eyes, so shamed was I by my loss of control.

Imagine my surprise when he spoke softly, reverently:

"Thank you, Maestro. I understand, now."

I took the stage once again, this time with Christine at my side. The orchestra played the lead-up to our cue again and we sang.

That night, Christine curled up beside me with a triumphant smile.

"You were amazing," she murmured.

"Amazing or not, that _must not_ happen in the midst of a performance," I huffed.

"True, true," she agreed, snuggling closer. "It would be disconcerting for the audience…"

"I simply can not have my orchestra sit like pole-axed cattle every time we sing!"

"It's too early yet to worry," she cooed as her comforting hand smoothed my wrinkled brow. "They'll get used to us in time. Give them a few more rehearsals. There's nothing you can do about it now, anyway."

Her hand found mine and guided it to the buttons of her pajama top.

"Besides, don't you have a favor to return?"


	43. Favors

A favor.

Favors for favors.

Could you do a favor for me?

She favored him…

When I was a hormone-driven teenaged boy, my dreams of physical intimacy were thus: Someday I would make a huge sum of money. I would take this money and search the world over until I found a whore desperate enough to let me do this thing that seemed to hold absolute sway over the minds (and bodies) of everyone around me.

The fantasy was that I would find her, show her the money, and tell her my demands (that she look at me when unclothed, that she not scream, etc…). I imagined that she would then take me to a room somewhere, we would both remove our clothes, and then I would get the thing done as quickly as possible. She would not scream or be sick, and I would understand what the flap was all about.

It never came to be, but do not imagine that virtue was the reason. Even as I grew into my twenties, I held onto my scheme. I made the money. I searched the world – and left uncounted bodies in my wake. Bangkok, Beijing, Taiwan, Harlem, Paris, Moscow, Seoul, Detroit; from the expensive high-rises to the slums and gutters I searched. I simply never could find a whore who was willing and able to meet my demands.

Kind listener, only imagine. Thousands of dollars at my easy disposal, and I never found a single woman – no matter how depraved - to take it. On sight of the money, they were _all_ willing to try. But once the mask came off…

On my thirtieth birthday, I found a woman on the streets of Los Angeles who seemed a likely candidate – startlingly thin, stringy-haired and dirty, clearly a user, eying each passing car with the bored, cold gaze I had come to recognize. I approached her, showed her the money, took her out for a meal and then to the penthouse of a luxurious hotel. I'd found that in any other place, the screams drew unwanted attention. Each step of the process was identical to the hundreds of other times, except for a new gnawing in my belly.

When she emerged from the shower, I invited her to remove my clothes. I reminded her that the money was contingent upon her adherence to my demands. I warned her, as I warned all the others, that I was deformed. How used I had gotten to that word, as ugly and stark as road-kill. _Deformed._ And she said what they all said in one way or another;

"That don't matter, baby. I seen it all."

And she began to undress me, attempting (at first) to make the process sexy. But when she saw my weird flesh, she slowed down.

And the gnawing became a burning.

"Don't forget the mask," I whispered. I meant to speak normally, but over that burning in my gut, I found it hard to breathe.

She took off the mask, all pretense of sexiness gone. It had long before been replaced by curiosity. And she screamed. And screamed, and screamed.

Like gasoline on a fire, her screams ignited a bonfire that burned away my rational mind. I grabbed her little sticklike arms and threw her onto the bed, following close behind. My hands wrapped around her neck, effectively cutting off her screams; I stared into her bulging eyes and felt no pity. All I remember thinking is that it was _my birthday_ and that I would have what I wanted – my present to myself. I felt my body on hers, knew what I was supposed to do, and knew that I could do it – this scrap of a girl could hardly stop me.

You are pale. Is this too much? More than you wanted to hear? Ah well, in for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.

She did what people always do when they are being strangled. She pushed at my hands, beat at my face, and generally tried to escape. But all the while, her lips kept forming the words _'Don't do it, please don't,' _and somehow, from the look in her eyes or the way she writhed her lower body, I knew that she was not begging me not to kill her.

She was begging me not put any piece of myself in her.

She was begging me not to do the thing that thousands of other men had already done to her, thousands of times. The thing I was willing to pay her an indecent sum of money to let me do. As dirty, worthless, and sick as she was – as many of her other 'customers' must have been - I was more disgusting. Even as she saw the end of her life looming, having sex with a monster like me was the greater horror. Her struggles became feeble, her hands fell to her sides, and her eyes rolled back in her head.

And I let go. I, the consummate assassin, had no heart for this kill.

She lay there on the bed, unconscious, and it passed through my mind that I could still have her; I could still have my birthday present. She would not fight, would never even know. I felt the heat of her body and the willingness of my own…

And I crawled off of her.

A normal man could have had her for twenty dollars without a fuss. And, for the sex, that was what I intended to pay. It was her tolerance, if not her acceptance, that the thousands of dollars were meant to buy.

What did I do then? I dressed myself, cloaked myself, and masked myself. I sat at the dresser and wrote her a note, assuming that she could find someone to read it to her, even if she could not read it herself. I pinned the note to several hundred-dollar bills and dropped it on her naked body.

The contents of the note?

"_Don't worry. I did nothing to you."_

And that was the last time I sought the 'solace' of a woman's charms.

Why am I telling you this, you ask? I tell you this that you might understand.

From the first time she touched me, this was the wall Christine battled. By the time she saw and tenderly kissed my body as though it were that of a normal man, she'd half demolished it. You'd think that I'd be ecstatic to have that wall knocked down, but I was afraid. I was terrified of what she might find behind it. Honestly, what sort of monster would spend years trying to lure a woman into his bed to satisfy his perverted curiosities?

What sort of monster would fail so completely?

When she invited me to "_return the favor", _my heart skipped a beat. In the safe, warm darkness of her bedroom, it seemed I could smell the sour odor of every whore I'd approached. Though I'd never had any of them, I felt their filth on my skin. I felt the ghost of that seething rage and the heart-swoon of debasing failure. Involuntarily, my eyes closed tightly, my fists clenched, my teeth gritted, and my body became rigid.

"Erik?" she asked, worried. "What is it?"

The heat clicked on, and I heard the rush of warm air entering the room. Outside the window a late bird called. I heard her breath and my own pounding heart. My hand, now a hard fist, still lay where she had placed it. I pulled it back, tucked it tightly against my side.

"Erik?"

"I can't, Christine," I hissed.

"You can."

"I won't."

She did not respond. Instead, I felt her sit up followed by the soft sound of fabric rustling. When she lay back down beside me, I felt her soft skin – more of it that I'd ever felt before – pressed against me. Her scent, clean and subtle, served to soothe my miserable consternation of mind and drive that sourness from my memory.

Christine's little hand wrapped around my fist, gently but insistently prying my fingers loose. She dragged my unwilling (but not entirely resisting) hand up to her cheek and covered it with her own. Against my own better judgment, I relaxed. This was known territory, beloved territory. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, she slid my hand down to her neck and I nearly leapt from the bed, remembering that dreadful night…of which my lover knew nothing.

But she kept moving down. I felt the small rise of her collarbone, the smooth slope of her shoulder, her arm. Safe, all these places were safe.

But she was not interested in "_safe." _From arm to waist, from waist to stomach, from stomach to…to breast. I'd seen many, touched none. The soft, yielding, strangely welcoming feel woke something primitive in my brain that I had brutally put to sleep. Again, I tried to tug my hand away, but she kept moving. From breast to heart. And the tour ended.

Christine left my hand there, covered by hers. Steady and rhythmic, that holy beat thrummed through my fingers, straight to my own battered and racing heart.

"You will," she murmured. "Not all at once; that would be wrong. But you will."

"But you don't know, Christine. You don't know…"

She covered my mouth with her free hand.

"It doesn't matter." She smoothed my few strands of hair, and I felt her smile against my cheek. "Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. Just try…"

Tentatively, I touched my lips to the delicate slope where shoulder meets neck. She shivered a little and sighed a sweet sigh. I covered her in kisses and prayed she did not notice my tears.

I blessed every prostitute who ever screamed, who ever ran, and I blessed the kind fates that dragged me away from that unconscious girl. It was just as Christine said; this would happen slowly, step by delicious step, and when it finally culminated…

You see, a thing like me has so little to offer a woman in the way of physical love. I cannot offer her a handsome face or muscular body. I am not young, and I am certainly not seductive. But this would be true: I would at least be clean for my angel.


	44. Leaving

That morning, and every following morning that we woke together, including this very morning before you arrived, began with a kiss. I have never, nor will I ever, cease to savor those dawn-light kisses. Even when we quarrel, the day must begin thus. It is so easy for people like you, people with a human face, to take such a small thing – a kiss – for granted.

Do not.

It was that morning, though, that I realized I had been putting off the inevitable. I had to return to my little apartments behind the stage, to solitude and to privacy – at least for a while. I see the question in your eyes: "Why return? Why _now_?" But, you see, my orders would be ready soon, and I had much to do to prepare for them. I simply could not be alone here long enough to make my plans. As yet, I had no idea how Christine would respond to the hubris of my assumptions.

I approached her in the living room, as she was warming up her Voice.

"Christine, I have to leave now."

I have never known what to do with myself when words are difficult. As a result, my delivery was blunt to the point of harshness. She stared at me for a moment, confused.

"Ok. When should I plan to have dinner ready?"

"No. I'm leaving. Going back. I have to go back to the theatre. To stay." Oh, I was bungling this badly. The consternation on her face told me in no uncertain terms that I was not explaining myself correctly, and that her assumptions were all of the worst sort.

"Why? Did…I…do something?"

"No! No, of course not." I took her hands in mine and tried to explain without giving myself away. "It's what I'm doing…going to do. I need…some time. And privacy. But you can come visit sometimes."

She just stood there, holding my hands, staring at me.

"Didn't you like it here?" Her eyes began to take on a wet gleam. "I did everything…"

"Christine, just trust me, please. I have to go back. I have something very important I must do." Now I was talking to her as if she were a child. And my mouth just went on and on.

"I'll help you…" her hands tightened on mine.

"You cannot. Not with this." I pried my fingers loose and walked away, unable to bear the look on her face.

Christine stood in the doorway and watched frozenly as I called a taxi. She followed me as I walked to our room I wished she would stop trailing me. It seemed I might be sick at any time; I wanted to spare her that sight and myself the humiliation. But she kept following me, and I did not have the heart to send her off. Instead, I swallowed frequently and tried not to breathe too deeply and hoped the taxi would arrive quickly.

There were a few small articles I wished to take back with me, mementos to remind myself of this beautiful time, and packed them all into a paper bag. As I stood on the front porch, waiting for the damned cab to arrive, she solemnly stood beside me.

"Is this because of last night?" she asked quietly, her eyes downcast, as though ashamed.

"No. And yes. It is because of last night and the night before…" I wracked my brain trying to think of what to tell her to assuage her pain. Then I remembered, "_Never leave me." _ Ah – the simplest of things. "Christine, I love you. I love you as bow loves strings. I am not leaving you. I am just leaving…this place. I have a place, and this is not it. Please try to understand."

"I don't, Erik. I don't understand at all." The taxi pulled up just then, and she broke into sobs.

"Christine…it's not forever. Won't you trust me?" I pleaded, but she ran into the house, slamming the door behind her. "It's for you…"

Only the knowledge of what loomed ahead moved me into that taxi. Except for his horn, the driver was as silent as I, and for that I was thankful. I paid him for the trip with the last of the money I'd had on me when we fled the theatre. I watched it go with some trepidation. That was the only part of the plan I had not finalized. This project would take the last of my funds from the old days _and_ all my profits from performances for many years to come. I had no plans for feeding myself or other insignificant necessities of the sort.

Just as my conviction that this thing I was doing was _right_ drove me from Christine's blessed presence, it pushed me to accept that lean times were ahead. Resolutely, I entered the building through its front doors and walked with my head held high to the stage. Thankfully, there was no one there practicing, fixing, or cleaning. _That_ would have been an awkward moment, indeed. As it was, I casually flipped the disguised lever and entered the revealed secret hallway more boldly than I ever had before.

Alone and lonely, I walked the round corridor to my apartments, my memories flooded with thoughts of the thousand ways my angel had made this hell a heaven. For her, for her; this was all for her.

Once in my apartments, I approached a low wooden chest, sealed for almost a decade. I opened the lid and stared at the contents for many long minutes. When I moved in to this place, thinking it would be my final home, I'd laid all the tools of my trade to rest here. My drafting table and rule, my pencils and copy paper, my compass and triangle, my smudged sketchpad, hundreds and hundreds of blueprints and paper for more, pages of research on materials, old bids from contractors… it was all here, laid to rest, I had believed.

With trembling hands and palpitating heart, I cleared my composing room of all traces of music. In its stead, I set up an architect's studio, somehow sterile and messy all at once. I stared long and deeply into the old blueprints, trying to hear the strains of a symphony of marble and wood. When at last I began to move the pencil across a fresh sheet in my sketchpad, the pain of separation evaporated.

I would place my Christine in the place she belonged; a place that put beauty above, before, behind, beside, and beneath her.

And she would forgive me.


	45. Arrival

Had Christine not been the muse that inspired this thing that grew steadily beneath my fingers, all thought of her would have flown from my mind. I was blown breathless by the beauty of my own creation. It soared like angels. It had no harsh corners – everything was delicate curves, just like my angel. Its exterior walls would take in the sunlight and reflect it back in a trillion tiny beams.

The interior was designed solely to please her. Bamboo and other ecologically sustainable woods were all I used for floor, ceiling, ornamental walls and fixtures. There would be room for music, room for comfort, and room for privacy. I even took the liberty of adding a room that would be suitable for a nursery. Even if we never had children, I imagined we might turn that room into something useful – a studio, perhaps.

I knew nothing of women then, and had no woman to ask. My uncertainty on this issue led me to design a special room with convoluted walls and shades that had no specific inherent purpose. It would be her room into which I would never venture. Perhaps she would entertain guests there, or daydream, or a thousand other feminine things that I knew nothing about. It was delightful to imagine.

The rooms, the exterior, even the tricky sustainable-wood interior – these were simple to design. There was, however, one feature that kept me at the drafting table for days and nights on end. The floor. The damned floor.

But enough about that. My architectural troubles are barely a piece of this tale. I can see the boredom in your eyes, even as I speak.

No. The tale lies in the way things began to crumble.

I did not speak to Christine for an entire week. It reminded me of old times, when I would wait blue-breathless for her weekly visit. Those were painful, unsure times, and I had no desire to revisit them. But revisit them I did. She did not call me and I dared not call her. Besides, when I stood at the drafting table, the pain of separation seemed distant and muted. It was only when I stopped for a bite or a rest that the great waves of loneliness crashed upon me. Then, it was unbearable. For that reason, I fell back into old habits. I slept little and ate less. In the throes of pain and creation, I barely felt the grinding fatigue or the hollow hunger. While I created, I forgot; while I was idle, I suffered.

On the night of rehearsal when the vocalists had to be present, I was there, on the stage, before anyone else appeared. I hoped that Christine would somehow know that I would do this, and decide to arrive early herself. But she was late, instead. Everyone arrived, seated themselves, and tuned up to play; all with no sign of Christine. Only when the music had begun did she come through the door, slow and cool, as though time was of no importance.

When she joined me on the stage, she gently touched my hand and smiled, but I could see that the smile was forced. Behind it lay a desert of sadness, and I ached for her.

"Christine," I whispered, agonized. But she only shook her head and shushed me.

The orchestra played and I held my seat, listening carefully, picking out the sound of each individual musician in turn. I learned their styles, their faces, their strengths and weaknesses; anything to keep my mind off the mournful beauty beside me.

When we sang, her Voice (though still divine) was not as full and bright as I was accustomed to. That is, until they played my requiem. Then her Voice was lifted to its highest glory. Beneath my mask, I wept. I wept in awe of her glory and I wept in pity for her pain. And still, behind it all, I could not believe that such emotion could be the result of my leaving. It made no sense to me.

After rehearsal, Christine stood and tried to leave with everyone else. I caught her wrist and pulled her back to face me, but she would not meet my eyes.

"What is this, Christine? Why haven't you called me? Why haven't you come?"

She deftly turned her wrist out of my grasp and stood there massaging it as if I'd injured it, though I knew no such thing had happened.

Still avoiding my gaze, she spoke with a Voice both low and strained. "You said you needed space. Privacy. I'm trying to give it to you. Please don't make this harder than already it is."

"But I told you that you could come visit…"

Then she did lock eyes with me. "Visit? After all we've shared, you somehow think a visit will be good enough?"

She turned and started walking towards the exit. I ran after her like a dog coming to heel.

"Yes! Visits! Like before. Everyday if you wish. Just…just call me ahead of time."

"What about your privacy? What about space?" Ah. So she was not simply sad; she was angry as well. And here was that little spate of pettishness of which I knew she was capable.

"I still need them." Again, I caught her shoulders to arrest her progress.

She stopped, but stood so stiffly it seemed her flesh and muscle had become granite.

"But not all the time. There's a reason, Christine. An excellent reason. Can you please believe me? Can you trust me?"

_Why should she?_ I thought.

"Why should I?" she questioned, and I started a bit at the sound of my own thoughts echoed at me. There was only one reason I could think of, patient listener, and so I used it.

"Because I love you…"

For a moment, she still stood like a statue, but then her shoulders slumped and her head drooped a bit.

"Fine, Erik. Fine." There was defeat and sadness in her Voice, but the bitterness had melted away. "Just tell me this: Will I ever know what this 'good reason' is?"

"Oh, yes! Yes, of course. Just not now, but in time you will know everything."

My promises were fervent. I drew very close to her and shyly kissed her neck just below her jawbone. I felt her relax more under this gesture of affection, but when I stood up, she still would not face me.

"Until next time, then," she whispered.

"As soon as you wish," I replied as she walked from the theatre without looking back.

Painful it was, and it was still another week and another rehearsal before she agreed to come and visit me on Sundays. Upon discovering that she was not allowed into the "Composing Room," as she called it, she found a new and subtle way to punish me for my sins against her. As innocently and sweetly as she possibly could, Christine demanded that I walk with her during these Sunday visits – outside. In public.

Oh, do not misunderstand – it was worth the embarrassment to feel her little fingers entwined with mine and to see her smile up at me with love and a little joy shining in her eyes. But I never did become comfortable with those walks through parks and along avenues. It did not help that she was frequently recognized.

People would come and beg for her autograph, sparing me a sidelong glace as they approached. Christine received them graciously, signing whatever they wished with a smile and a kind word. I was proud of her, even as I attempted to disappear in the shadows. I know now that she was trying to teach me something, to show me something of the world beyond the theatre walls, but then I was only conscious of her. I was painfully aware that her smile did not sparkle as it once had and that her kisses were precise and light. I yearned for the passion and intensity that we had shared in the darkness of her bedroom until it was like a cancer eating away at me.

Despite the pain - hers and mine – I persevered. My own logic is a mystery to me now, but then it was essential that all remain a secret until the day I carried my darling home. But there was a hitch: for it to remain a secret, I had to get Christine away from the theatre – for better than six months straight. How that was to be accomplished had not yet begun to trouble my mind.

I had enough to think about.

The weeks and months passed and the day of my debut screamed toward me like an unholy express train. Christine's Voice was finer and fairer that it had ever been. When I listened to rehearsals, the body, the reality, of my work was more and more evident until one day it broke into being, piercing my heart with a joy and pride so fierce I thought I might burst into flame. As I knew it must, my work had grasped the soul of every musician. I personally witnessed blisters and new calluses blooming on fingers that had not seen a blister in many years. And when they played, I could see that they traveled to a far-away place, carried there in the current of the music – my music.

Word was out (no doubt spread by my enthusiastic musicians) that the sublime Christine Daae had found a composer as brilliant as she. Rumor of my peculiar appearance and reclusive ways apparently served to bolster public curiosity. Three weeks before our first performance, the managers informed me that the house was sold out – for all three nights. My world was spinning, spinning, spinning out of control and I was swept up in the ecstatic vertigo. I took the advice of my angel and opened my hands, letting it go, for once riding the storm wherever it took me.

And this is how I found myself standing beside Christine in front of a packed theatre, watching the faces of four thousand people go slack as the first strains of my music flowed into them.


	46. The Gift

Oh, they heard. They heard!

This first piece was one of tranquility, composed shortly after Christine entered my life. Reyer had insisted on its preceding all the other pieces. Though its beauty was somewhat less (in my ears) than the others, he said it would be the kindest way to introduce my music to the world. In retrospect, I recognize his wisdom. Now, I think back to that time and I see their faces slowly relaxing. I see their eyes drifting closed – not in sleep, but in a peace beyond sleep.

I, too, felt its soothing effects. My nerves unwound and I feared what was to come less. Maybe that was the effect of the music…maybe not. Another theory says that I relaxed because, for the very first time in my entire life, I looked upon a crowd and knew what they felt. They felt what I _wanted_ them to feel; they felt what I had felt at the time of the composing. And for that first, most peaceful of pieces, that was fine.

But the works that followed shattered that gentle hypnosis. Never until that night did I really understood the fullness of my own emotions. But I watched them, watched their faces, and I saw myself reflected in them. I saw my rage, and I feared them. (I was not the only one; Reyer later confessed that he half believed that the audience would rise up in riot during that one…) I saw the depths of my sorrow, and I pitied them in their suffering. The orchestra threw themselves into each piece as though it were the last they'd ever play. I saw sweat coursing down their faces, sometimes mingling with tears and my heart swelled with a possessive pride.

But the greatest change came when Christine and I sang. We had only one performance before intermission – Reyer's decision. It was one of the love ballads I'd written for Christine, but had not gathered the courage to share with her until this immense project began. The orchestra played us in and we stood there, side by side on the lip of the stage. I felt her little hand touch mine reassuringly. Then she loosed her gift.

As perfect and pure as a single moonbeam, her Voice floated out and settled over the audience, covering them in beauty – making them beautiful - bathing them in its magic. Christine truly came into her own that night. All the potential I'd ever imagined, all the possibilities I'd ever dreamed for her were surpassed.

And then it was time for me to join her. Her magic worked its will on me, as well. I opened my mouth and felt the words pulled from me. So true, so right. When her eyes met mine, I fell and was lost. Any scrap of my soul that I dared still call my own flew to her.

Oh, Christine, Christine! My Angel, my Dear, my Darling, my Heart, my Light…

When that first song ended, and we broke our gaze to turn to the audience, we realized that we stood in complete silence. They were not applauding – they were not breathing. The lights did not rise to announce intermission. The doors did not open.

Pole-axed oxen.

The orchestra, the stage crew, the audience; all of them sat, staring blankly. Tears ran, unwiped, down many a face. Christine and I stood on the stage for many minutes, just waiting. Surely the spell would break soon. Surely the lights would change, the audience would applaud, and intermission would begin with its rustles and whispering. But no, they were floating in magic, trapped in dream. Christine took my hand, we bowed deeply and turned to leave the stage.

Our movement was the needed catalyst. Then everyone sighed a collective sigh; a long and drawn-out 'aaahhhhh' that spoke of ineffable happiness. There was no applause, though. They were too stunned.

We left the stage for some water, smiling with satisfaction at the overwhelming success of our performance. No sooner had we taken a few swallows, than Reyer came running up, still breathless from the exertions of conducting. He bowed, but the distress on his face was obvious.

"What's wrong with you?" I asked, jovially, "we just had a screaming success!"

"They haven't moved."

"What?" Christine joined the conversation.

"They haven't moved, Madame. No one has left the auditorium. They're all just…sitting there." He wrung his hands until they were quite red.

"It is intermission, isn't it?" Christine asked, confused.

"It is, Madame. But they do not appear to want it."

"Has this ever happened before?"

Christine appealed to both of us, our collective time in the theatre. We both shook our heads in the negative. No. Audiences always took advantage of intermission for drinks, the restrooms, to stretch their legs… This was unprecedented and marvelous. I swallowed the remainder of my water and stepped forward with the clear solution.

"Well then, Reyer, if they do not want it, they shall not have it."

He blinked, I clarified.

"On with it, man! Strike up the band!"

"But…but they are still restringing their instruments, retuning, resting and so forth…"

That was an issue. I longed to give my audience its every wish, but the musicians did need a break. I conceded the point.

"Very well then. Tell them to get on with it as quickly as possible. Christine and I shall be ready when they are."

Reyer bowed and raced off to deliver my instructions to the orchestra. Christine and I returned to the stage, smiling adoringly at one another. And when the music began again, we were ready. The rest of that night passed in an ecstatic whirl. The audience was our plaything; we, their masters. I held their hearts in the palm of my hand – it was an intoxicating rush of power unlike anything I had ever felt before. When I stood on the brink of taking a man's life, there was power, but only the power to bring death – and only to one person. Here, I could transport thousands to any emotional state I wished. And we did.

At the end, there was another silence while the audience caught its breath. Then, as one, they rose to their feet and began applauding and whistling. When Christine and I came forward for our bows, their praise redoubled. It washed over us for many minutes, until I was certain their hands must be aching. We bowed, bowed again, bowed one last time and then left. Their applause followed us off the stage, through the dressing rooms, and out the door.

Where Christine took both my hands in hers and smiled up at me.

"Can you come to my house…just for tonight?" She was almost shy in her invitation – almost. "I get the paper first thing in the morning – surely you want to read your reviews?"

I laughed and acquiesced. She had just given me the most triumphant night of my long and triumphless life. How could I deny her anything?

We drove to her home in a sweet silence. In silence we ascended the stairs to her bedroom. In silence we prepared for sleep. There was no passionate kissing tonight, no revealing of flesh or pushing of boundaries. She merely kissed my cheek and curled up against me, smiling. I wrapped her in my arms and floated there, rapturous and blissful. We soaked in this perfect end to a perfect evening. The reviews? They were glowing to be sure, but I remember only one…

_"Tonight, this reporter experienced something beyond the realm of human experience. If you do not yet have tickets, may I recommend that you call the theatre and demand another night's performance."_


	47. Departure

"You must."

"But I don't want to."

"As your teacher, I insist."

"As the _actual_ person in charge of my life, I decline!"

Her Voice was growing shriller. I was becoming less and less patient. We were standing in the foyer of the symphony hall, having a thoroughly unpleasant quarrel. This scenario was not at all what I had hoped for when the obsequious invitation for Christine to tour – internationally – came to me from our managers. They had been receiving sheaves of requests from opera houses, music halls, and theatres across the globe. News of our performance – my debut – had spread far and wide. News had spread, and we were suddenly very much in demand. Of course, I would not be indulging in my newfound fame (as yet the public had only the name "Erik" to put with the fast-flying sensation), but I was willing to offer Christine the opportunity to enjoy her world-renowned status – not that she had been unknown before…

Christine's name had spread far and wide, as it should have. Those wonderful nights of music and magic were only a greater catalyst for her celebrity. Other directors wanted to draw the music from her, other audiences wanted to hear her. They offered impossible fees (garnered, no doubt from visions of impossible ticket prices) for her appearance and promised every accommodation and service that could be rendered to the Diva. I told the managers that they might begin making arrangements for a tour.

Far be it from me to deny anyone the glory of Christine's unearthly Voice!

Further, this would conveniently remove her from the premises for nearly a year. My stomach roiled at the prospect; my new picture of Hell was any place _she_ was not. Though I worked furiously on blueprints for our future nest, and though I had been driven to acquire a cellular phone of my own (contractors seem to love prolonged phone calls to discuss minutiae like mortar brand and bamboo markets), I still carved out time to be with her – and this pittance of time was all that preserved my shaky sanity. Unfortunately, there would be no keeping the secret from my perceptive darling once loads of supplies and trucks full of workman arrived at the symphony hall. There was no question about it; she had to go.

But there was one sore and sticky point. Christine did not _want _to go. She would speak with recording companies, if they wished. She would perform for schools, charities; anyone, as long as they were local. A world tour, though, was completely out of the question.

The little chit was absolutely determined to destroy the career I was trying desperately to build for her. Damn her sweet, faithful, stubborn heart! She would not hear reason, nor would she listen to the pleas in dozens of languages that poured in from admirers across the planet. No. She wanted, she said, to stay here with me.

And how could I even begin to persuade her? How could I be convincing when I really wanted her here by my side? There was no way, so I reverted to what I knew.

"Christine, you will do this." She stiffened, I softened. "If I could go with you, you know I would. But I can't, and you know that, too." Here was the fatal sting, the thing I hoped fervently she could not resist, "Do it for me; take what I've taught you and show the world what music can – should – be. Please. Don't keep the gift I've given you hidden here in this little town."

Guilt: the final weapon in my arsenal.

Maybe I pushed too far, coated it with a bit too much sugar. Christine was eying me suspiciously, one eyebrow saucily raised.

"And what will you be doing while I'm gone? What will 'my poor Erik' do for the duration of a ten-month world tour?" I tried, but could not place the tone in her Voice. It was a little bit angry, a little bit sorrowful, a little sarcastic (and I am here to tell you that sarcasm wears poorly on my Angel…), and a little amused. I was fuddled by the quirk of her brow and the tang of her words.

"I…I…Well…I shall do what I do. You know…" At this point, a nice '_hhnnch' _would have been less painful. As it was, I was again a gaffed and flopping fish, ungainly and clumsy. With an inhuman effort, I tried to pull myself together. "I will run the theatre, of course. I'll compose. Perhaps I will direct the orchestra in a performance or two. Why? Do you think I cannot survive without you?"

She put her hands on her hips, tipped her head to one side, and scowled.

"I don't know. Can you?" And she stood there, waiting for an answer.

Naturally, I had none. Women do this with astounding acuity, I have found. They ask questions to which there _is_ no correct answer. '_Do you think I should lose some weight?'_ '_Do you think _she's_ pretty?' 'Can you survive without me?'_ A pox on the whole gender! If I said yes, I would sound like the most insensitive boor ever to disgrace the name of man. If I said no, I'd give the appearance of infantile weakness – hardly a desirable property in a mate. So while she stood there pointedly waiting, I stood facing her, pointedly not answering. This was another skill I had had great faith in. I could wait my quarry out.

Finally, she broke, as I knew she must.

"Oh, have it your way. You _always_ have to have everything _your_ way. I'll go. I'll sing and be famous and make disgusting amounts of money. But I won't enjoy it!" She turned to flounce out, but then stopped and turned back. Her eyes were narrowed and shining with a flat gleam that struck up a nervous buzzing in my gut. Her words did nothing to allay it, either. "Has it occurred to you, my love, that I might _enjoy_ myself? Maybe I'll go and have so much fun, I won't _want_ to come back."

Then she did flounce out, and I was left standing there with my mouth hanging open, conceding the victory to my much-loved opponent.

Two weeks later, she stood by her door, waiting for the driver to carry her trunks out to the limousine which would, in turn, carry Christine to the airport and away from me for a longer time than I dared think about.

"Now, don't forget to eat," she said, fiddling with the lapel of my dress jacket. "Make sure you get some sleep every night. I've left you an itinerary of all the places I'll be staying. If you need me, don't hesitate to call. And don't kill anyone; it would be bad for your image…."

I gazed down at her tenderly, loving the way her lips formed the words and the way her long fingers crumpled my carefully pressed suit. I already ached with the missing of her and she was still here, practically in my arms. There was something I had to know before she left, and did not know how to ask.

"You will come back, won't you?" I blurted. "You didn't really mean what you said…"

For a moment, her eyes were blank. Then realization seeped into them, and her sad smile grew a bit wicked. We both heard the driver's heavy footsteps on the walk outside.

"Call me, my love. Everyday. Remind me of what I'm missing."

She rose up on her tip-toes and pressed a hot kiss to my mouth. The door opened, the driver picked up her trunk – and like that, she was gone.


	48. The Fading

I did call her every day.

Christine had suddenly become a very busy woman. Her first stop was in Paris, to perform at the lovely piece of neo-baroque artistry designed by Garnier. The night before she appeared on stage, our entire conversation revolved around her inability to believe that she had come so far, and in so short a time.

Once upon a time, I had promised her that she would prove to the world that there were other ways to create a fine singer than a conservatory education. The world was apparently finding this very hard to swallow. She complained that reporters, directors, and other singers pressed her mercilessly, asking whether she'd attended some school under a false name.

"I tell them that _Erik_ is my teacher," she said, "and they all say '_The Erik?'_ and start buttering me up to see if they can get an audience with you. You might want to start watching your back… And the things they ask about _me_! They already know where I was born, what my parents did for a living, that my father is dead – they even know I did not sing in chorus at any of my schools. It's beyond annoying, Erik. I wish you were here to scare them off for me."

Of course, each performance caused a sensation. How could anyone not be floored by the unreal quality of my Angel's Voice? Not in the history of recording devices has another like it been captured. I do not feel that I am overstepping when I venture that there has never been a voice like hers in all of human history. I can say with certainty that there has never been another voice like hers, trained by a teacher like me, singing works like mine. So she was treated like the perfect Diva she is.

And do you think she reveled in the pampering? Do you think she relaxed and accepted her status?

"It's like being the lapdog for the entire _world_," she moaned, two weeks later. "Everything is _'Would Madame care for this?_' and '_Would Madame care for that?_' I just finished with a massage – the fourth this week! - and some guy with muscles like Atlas asked me if I wished to be bathed! Can you imagine that?"

(I could, patient listener, but I did not say so at the time.)

"They do my hair, put make-up on me, and choose my clothes like I was a doll. This one stylist actually _threw away_ my make-up bag _and_ my hairbrush. Seriously, Erik. You wouldn't recognize me if you saw me."

I assured her that she was probably the loveliest lady they'd ever worked with. She snorted and denied that any such thing was possible, going on to talk about the wonders she'd witnessed. This was her favorite part of the tour; it was rare that 'a girl like her' got to see things like the Louvre, the Parthenon, and so forth. No matter the pampering she received and no matter the great sights she saw, Christine never hung up without assuring me that she wanted nothing more than to come home to me.

I wanted nothing more, myself.

This separation was more difficult than I had imagined it would be –and I imagined my heart turning to dust and blowing away. I took afternoons to do nothing but sit quietly in her townhouse, smelling her scent, staring at her photographs, and trying to take comfort in the sensation of Christine-ness all around me.

Of course, I had my work. A month into her tour, the design was done. I had detailed blueprints and instructions and contractors hanging on their phones, awaiting my call. Unfortunately I had forgotten one small detail.

It was not only Christine who had to go.

I waited in the early dawn light for my managers to arrive. Their surprise at finding me in their office would have been comic, had my business not been so urgent – and so thoroughly depressing. I called in Reyer and our little group was complete.

"What do you mean, _'We have to close.'_? cried Poligny.

"I mean what I say." I was the essence of coldness. "Put out notices, lock the doors, find surrogates for our musicians – that won't be difficult, but make it absolutely clear the placements are temporary and their contracts still stand! – and prepare yourselves for a nine-month vacation."

"Paid…vacation?" ventured the plump Debienne. Poligny looked up with hope splashed all over his face.

I groaned inwardly and put my head in my hands. I had planned for this, their salaries were always banked at the beginning of each fiscal year, but the looks on their sheepy faces made me want to strangle them.

"Yes. Paid. Now follow my orders and get out of my sight!"

They scattered like leaves in the wind, leaving Reyer standing quietly in a corner, waiting.

"Closing, Maestro? Why now, when we are just coming into greatness?" It was the question the other two fools never dared to ask. Reyer had become used to me over the months we worked together. He feared me less and even questioned me occasionally. I was slowly coming to respect the man.

"Renovations, my friend. Renovations."

And that was all I would tell him.

In forty-eight hours, the beautiful place was dark and locked. The men I'd hired would soon come and cart all the entrails off to safe storage so they would not be damaged during the change. I realized that I would have to leave as well, and moved into Christine's home.

But when they came with their cranes and jackhammers and wreckers, I had to be there. From the roof of a nearby building, I watched as they tore part of the roof from my theatre. As though it were mere rubble, they dumped it into trucks and hauled it off. Soon, there was a gaping hole where the fine vaulted ceiling had once rung with celestial music. It matched the hole being rent in the fabric of my being. Paparazzi and other street trash had gathered around the place, searchign for answers - searching for me. The only 'safe' place was Christine's townhouse, known to be empty.

I turned away, sick to the core, and began the long walk home.

Of course I said nothing of this to Christine. What could I say? When she noted my unusually terse conversation, she asked if I was ok. I told her I was fine, that I was just missing her.

Saying so aloud made it more true than it had ever been – not that I was ok, but that I missed her. I had filled the past two months with design and control of this project. But now the blueprints were done and in the hands of contractors. There was nothing for me to do but watch, criticize, and wait. I tried to compose, tried to sing, but the music would not come.

For a while, I ate because I knew it would please her. Though I did not sleep, I rested, because I knew Christine would have wanted me to do so. If only I could have gone home, only for an hour, perhaps the pain would have been less acute. Btu the place was a construction zone now. The foremen apologetically told me that I needed to remain outside the perimeter.

I found myself without the strength to argue, or even to intimidate.

Within a season, I had successfully torn from myself those few things I loved: home, music, Angel, everything. And with everything gone, there was nothing to sustain me.

By the time the hole was floored and the glistening walls of marble and crystal began to rise, I'd lost the color and flesh I'd gained during my time with Christine. Without sleep, I began to dream in my waking hours. I was the shell of the shell of a man. The knowledge that Christine's absence and the construction were of a finite nature faded from my rational mind.

Two weeks before the building was to be finished and three weeks before Christine was to return, it occurred to me that I might be dying.


	49. A Cry for Help

It was not that I wanted to die, particularly. It was that I could not seem to make myself _live. _ I holed up in Christine's townhouse like a wounded animal, occasionally nibbling some bread or sipping water, but the sight – the smell! – of food revolted me. I was aware that my clothes hung on me like sheets and that my bones were protruding more sharply than ever from flesh that was more and more like paper with every passing day. Sleeping suddenly became much easier, though. I found myself drifting off for hours at a time.

I had received calls and one visit from the contractors, who looked at me warily, as though whatever I had might be catching. Our home was nearing completion, they said, only one day left Furniture was ready to be moved in and the interior decorator was already there adding the final touches. Of course, these were mere contractors, whose judgment I hardly trusted. I wanted to go see it, but I no longer had the strength to walk so far and the prospect of catching a cab was as revolting as the food.

Things were lapsing, passing without my notice. I had not called Christine in nearly four days, when my phone rang.

I stared at it blearily for a moment, when my brain finally connected the annoying sound with the function of the phone. I pressed the little green 'YES' button and lifted the phone to my ear.

"'Lo?" I croaked.

"Erik?" That Voice.

Oh, what had happened to her Voice in the course of a short (eternally long) nine months? When she left, it had been a lovely young woman's voice, flutelike and sweet, like moonbeams and flower blossoms. But something had happened; she had _grown_ somehow. Her Voice was larger, fuller, more present…I felt power flow from it, into me.

"Erik? Are you…drunk?" Worry was evident in every inflection. "Or sick?"

"No. I was just…sleeping." To tell the truth, my voice was slurred and fuzzy with dehydration. "Where are you?"

But the secret was out. She knew something was amiss, and I had not the power to hide it.

"Australia. You _are_ sick, aren't you. Oh, I knew I shouldn't have left you alone. I_ knew_ it."

"Christine, I'm…"

You call Nadir _right now_, Erik. Do you hear me? You call him. I'm coming home." That was her inflexible Voice. There was no force on Earth could move her when she used that Voice. Still, fool that I am, I tried.

"No, Christine. Your tour. Finish it." Oh, but speech was exhausting. How annoying, to lose my powers of speech now, when I needed them most.

"To hell with this tour and everyone on it. I'll see you soon, Erik. Very soon."

And she hung up.

I tried to call her back, but she did not answer. So I called Nadir, as commanded.

"Hello?"

I cringed when he answered. This was going to be horrid and humiliating. To ask help at my beloved's gentle hand was a pleasure. To beg it from my one-time business associate was insupportable. But I had to – my power was diminished.

"Khan…" It was less a greeting, and more a defeated whisper.

"Who is this?" he demanded, and for a moment my mind side-slipped to the old days. What was the job? Who were we supposed to…

"It's me, Khan." I tried to remember what this was all about. "The minister's in the back hall. I'll scoop him before they ever know…"

"What? What's wrong with you?" I couldn't understand why Nadir sounded so upset. And then reality came back in a slow flood.

Christine. The house. I needed it, but didn't want to ask for Nadir's…

"Help." I said.

"Oh, Allah help us. Erik, where are you? Are you sick?"

"Sick…" I agreed. "Can't use the lasso on him, Nadir. Going to have to use poison. It's going to cost them."

"Where…are…you?"

It was a good question, and I worked to think of the answer.

"At the Angel's house."

"You aren't dead yet, man. Where are you?"

"My Angel's…"

"Christine's?"

But I was done. There was no more left. You have been in my theatre, have you not? Did you see the Khan suite? Yes. I am grateful, eternally grateful, that the man is a brilliant spy. How quickly he must have worked to find the address and transportation... Though I was unaware of time passing, he was at my side in less than eight hours.

"Allah help us…" he repeated. He began muttering under his breath. He'd never been an overly religious man, but I have found out since then that he was praying. Praying hard for a man he thought would soon be in the grave. But he stopped long enough to inform me that he was taking me to a hospital. Starved and ill, nothing more than bones and sinew, really; he lifted me – all six-plus feet of me – as though I were no more than a child. What a sight I must have been!

Even in the last extremes, we sometimes find a hidden well of strength. I found mine then. My eyes snapped open and my grotesque fingers found and gripped his face.

"No. Not the hospital. _She_ is coming home. You must take me _home_, Nadir. The key is in my pocket…"

"Home? The theatre?"

"Upstairs. _Our home_, Nadir. She'll be here soon; she's flying in soon. Find her and bring her home to me."

The last words I heard, as darkness came and wrapped me in cloak of blissful oblivion, were,

"Oh, Allah, Allah… Allahumma Azhibil bas, Rabbannas, Ishfi wa anta Shafi, La Shifa illa Shafaok. Shifaal La Yoghadiro saqama!₣

A/N – this is a Muslim prayer for the sick, roughly translated it says, ₣ "_O Allah remove the hardship, O Lord of mankind, grant a cure for You are the Healer. There is no cure but from You, a cure which leaves no illness behind_."₣


	50. Rescued

I remember some things that happened, but the memories are hardly coherent, and consist mainly of flashes of emotional or physical awareness. It took nearly two days of careful doctoring before I was strong enough to think and speak. Nadir has told me some of what he did to save me (for I was, indeed, hard against death's front gate when he arrived), and I can relate that to you, but understand that this is only second-hand.

He called a cab, bundled me into it, and took me to the Opera house. Fishing the key out of my pocket, he opened an access door, then carried me inside. He admits that he left me lying on the floor while he frantically searched for the way up. Once that was found , it was only a matter of hauling my long and unwieldy carcass up the narrow, winding wrought iron staircase and finding the bedroom.

If it seems like an insufficient account, it is. I know there are details he left out, things he continues to think it is best I do not know. For example, I know that when he found me, I had not bathed nor changed my clothes in recent memory. I had not bothered to put on my mask or gloves. When I was aware enough to notice the difference, though, I was not assaulted by my own odors. Instead, I smelled a soft perfume of incense and the sharper scents of new carpeting and freshly-dried paint. I wore the pajamas Christine had bought for me and I felt the comforting weight of my mask on my face. (Whether this was for my benefit or his is yet another discussion we will never have.)

Also, when I came fully into consciousness, I realized that I had given myself scurvy, though it was not much advanced, and I was suffering from protein and vitamin deficiencies which caused sores to break out on my skin. Total self-neglect had caused some of these to become infected – but when I awoke, they were cleaned, dressed, and beginning to mend. Though he has never embarrassed me with the details, I know this was his work.

Nadir says he fed me on a mixture of condensed milk and fortified juices (cranberry, orange, and carrot to name a few) at first by dripping them into my mouth until I reflex-swallowed. Thank goodness I was not conscious to taste that! He followed this with milk-thinned peanut butter to replace proteins and fats. It may have been a desperate chance, but it did its work in that it did not kill me by overfeeding or overwhelming my system. It is not that I ate nothing for nine months, you understand. I nibbled and pecked whenever I could force myself. But what I nibbled and pecked was neither of high quality nor sufficient calories to sustain me.

I tell you that he has never shared the details of his ministrations with me, and you may be wondering why I have never pressed it out of him. The truth is that the "how" did not interest me then, nor does it interest me now. The thing that I asked, when I finally opened my eyes and was cognizant of my situation, was:

"Why?"

He was sitting by my side, a book entitled "_Anorexia: Best Practices"_ in his hand and a cup of bitter-smelling herb tea growing cold beside him. From the taste in my mouth, I was certain some of that tea had already reached its destination. When I spoke, he slowly set his book down and turned to regard me cautiously.

"How are you feeling?" His tone was carefully neutral. Later, he confided in me that he did not know _which_ Erik was waking up. He did not wish to anger the assassin lest I should move and do myself harm – or he should have to harm me in self-defense.

"Like a man who should be dead." I turned my head to look at him, and the effort left me exhausted. "Why have you saved me?"

"For the same reasons I would have saved any small child." Nadir then busied himself propping me up on several pillows and siphoning more of that dreadful tea into me. His answer seemed cryptic to me then, but I have come to understand since.

Speaking still seemed an unwonted chore, so I took advantage of my new position to look around. Though I'd never come in here during construction, never seen the place except in my imagination and my sketches, I recognized my surroundings immediately. I was in the bedroom I'd designed for us, on the bed I'd ordered custom made. It was as perfect as I had dreamed it might be.

The gently sloping walls curved up protectively, meeting far overhead in an arch inlaid here and there with thick glass. Light shimmered in softly, illuminating the fleecy bed curtains, pale walls, and white carpet with a soft glow. Though I'd used Christine's beloved pastels as accents in the appropriate places, there was no real color in this room to distract the eye or weight the soul. Everything gave the feeling that one was floating softly in a fairy-haven. I could almost see her sitting at the dressing table in her white nightgown, brushing her hair.

"You designed this," Nadir said softly, approvingly. "I would never have believed you had it in you."

"It's not in me," I muttered, taking another sip of the dreadful concoction. It contained some sort of stimulant, I am sure. Every drink I took restored more of me to myself. "It is her."

Nadir nodded and took his seat. After studying me for a few minutes, he cleared his throat.

"I took a liberty, Erik. I hope you don't mind." He met my questioning gaze and held out a thin brochure he'd used as a bookmark. It was a small circular announcing the reopening of the symphony hall, to be commemorated by a concert series including the diverse works of Mozart, Vivaldi, Sibelius…and _Erik_. It said that the concert series would be _postponed by two days._ "Emergency press. I told them I was acting on your orders; it's a good thing I can forge your signature so well. They were set to resume operations today, but I asked them to postpone."

I blinked.

"Postpone?"

"Christine is coming back to you, Erik, as fast as she can. She was delayed at the Melbourne Airport, and will probably be delayed again at LAX – you know how that goes – but she _is_ coming. I thought you would want the music to wait until she arrived."

I thought of my original plan, long-since forgotten: to carry my Angel with pomp and celebration up the winding staircase and into her new home as beautiful music floated up through the drattedly impossible trap-door I had designed in the drattedly impossible floor. Instead, I was the one who had been carried – in silence and in haste. That first opportunity was gone forever; it would be many weeks before I was strong enough to carry anything heavier than a teacup. Nadir had made a wise decision.

He has that habit.

"Fine." I tried to change my position in the bed and was horrified to discover that I could barely shift my weight. Nadir noticed the weak movement and was immediately at my side, helping me to be comfortable. The fact I was so reliant on his strength brought a new and dread thought to mind. "Nadir?"

"Yes?"

"When?" I asked. "When will she be here. You said '_delayed'_…"

He thought I was anxious for her return. Truly, he meant his answer to be comforting. "Soon, Erik. She should be arriving in a few hours."

I closed my eyes and sank back into the pillows.

"Can you stop her? Send her back? Bar the door and turn out the lights…" I could feel his incredulous stare and cared not a whit. "She cannot see this, Nadir. She mustn't."

"She already knows, Erik. Don't be a damned fool about it. That's what got you here in the first place." He leaned forward, arched an eyebrow, and gave me a significant look. "The only assignment that ever came close to killing us…do you remember it, Erik?"

I smiled at the memory. We had captured a political figurehead and were holding him for ransom for a client. Police, armies, spies; they all were looking, but no one could find our hide-out, except for the man's wife. She'd broken in upon us as we took supper, clutching a grenade and a polished-looking .45 caliber pistol. The pistol was cocked and the pin of the grenade was at her teeth. I suppose we could have stopped her, killed her somehow, but I admired her pluck. The money was not critical, so we handed the poor schmuck over without a fight, laughing in relief and surprise only when the door closed behind her.

Nadir saw my smile and nodded. "I will not get between a woman and the man she loves, my friend. I value my quiet little life far too much."


	51. Reunion

Nadir returned to his book, and I to my thoughts. The last nine months were like a dream to me now. Back in the safety of my demesnes, with some decent nutrition repairing my abused body and mind, I began to see the folly of my behavior. The black despair that had swallowed me whole and nearly taken my life now seemed far away. I could not understand how I had let it take me so quickly.

I spent my childhood alone and my adolescence hiding and fighting. There was no music then, no one to love me and make much of me, and yet I had survived. Nadir had never been my friend in all those years of slaughter, and I did not waste away. As I lay immobile, gathering strength, I contemplated the source of this new and nearly fatal weakness.

In one land I visited, I met a man who could scoop hot coals into his hand and hold them there for several seconds before he was forced to drop them. This man was a subsistence farmer and something of a hermit. Because he insisted on solitude, he had to farm his own food, tan his own leather, and shape the stone to build and mend his home. His hands were stiff and thick with amazing calluses, and it was these calluses that allowed him to do the amazing feat with hot coals. But he had lost almost all the sensation in his hands. He could do no delicate work, and was apt to break eggs when he lifted them. He eschewed clay plates and cups. He could not feel the soft wool of a newborn lamb or enjoy the smoothness of the stone he polished. He had no manual dexterity and was confined to rough tasks.

One day, he was hewing stone and the rock axe slipped, slicing away much of the callus from his left hand. The doctor who repaired the wound removed the rest. As it healed, he spoke often with surprise and wonder at the pleasure and pain of _touching_. His new skin was so sensitive that he could no longer hold a warm bowl of soup in that hand, let alone hot coals. He acquired a cat soon afterwards and could often be seen sitting on his front porch, stroking the cat's silky fur –always with his left hand.

It was my conclusion that my heart had come to be like that man's hands; callused and tough beyond feeling. Christine entered my life and tore away the calluses, exposing the very muscle. Suddenly, I could feel as I had always been _meant_ to feel, perhaps even more intensely than most. When Christine left, I had not imagined the slicing pain her departure and absence would cause. How could I? But a heart is not a hand – one cannot slice it open thus and live.

My thoughts were interrupted by the chimes of my cellular phone, tucked in Nadir's breast pocket. He answered and held a swift, hushed conversation. After hanging up, he reported that Christine was on her way; she would arrive in less than an hour. I almost scolded him for not giving me the phone, but then realized it was for the best, really. Let Christine take in all the shock of how dreadfully I had deteriorated at once.

To save what I could of my dignity, I asked Nadir to move me to the sofa in the living room. Having designed the sofa myself, I knew that I could be propped up in the corner between the higher arm and the back. Nadir was worried that sitting up might tire me, but I did not care. I told him that he could either take me there, or I would try to go myself. Christine could not come in to find me sprawled helplessly in what I hoped would become our marriage bed. Given the choice of moving me voluntarily or watching me destroy the careful work he had done, he obligingly carried me to the sofa. I had him wrap me in my cloak to partially conceal my wasted limbs.

Nadir sat with me as we waited, but his presence did little to comfort me. I was deep in contemplating my fears. What would Christine think when she saw me? How would she react when she found that I could barely lift my arms to take her hands? Worse, I was essentially penniless. This project had sucked up any potential income I might have for many years. What would she say when she found out that I was entirely a wasted man, without beauty, youth, health, or money?

It was clear that I was not paying him the least attention, so Nadir left me with my thoughts to go meet Christine and usher her into the building. I drew myself up as straight as possible and strained my ears, though I knew that the soundproofing job in the flooring would swallow any small noise their feet might make.

Christine and Nadir both swear that I was alone for no more than fifteen or twenty minutes, but I know better. Hours – maybe days – passed while I waited. With each passing minute, I felt my tenuous strength ebbing. I was determined, no matter what, to at least be sitting up when she arrived.

Finally, I heard the door latch click. It swung open, and there she was.

Christine stood in the doorway, framed in light. Her hair was down and a little messy, tousled by the wind outside. She wore a loose chemise and matching full skirt of robin's egg blue that brought out the green in her eyes. I thought she had never looked more beautiful; world travel and all the pampering she deserved had done her a world of good.

But those eyes… They stared at me, looking me over, assessing the damage. She had not even glanced around the room. I wished more than anything she _would_ look around a bit. Maybe the comfortable aura of the room would direct her piercing gaze elsewhere.

I tried to stand and found that I could not. Instead, I settled for raising a hand towards and saying:

"Welcome home, my Angel."


	52. Can It Be Ours

Predictably, my hand wilted back to my side soon after I lifted it. Christine walked slowly across the room; even I could see that she was restraining herself, slowing herself on purpose. Wordlessly, she sat on the sofa beside me and took my hand. She sat there for the longest time, holding my hand and not speaking. My body was in torpor, and my usually cold hands were frozen. Hers were warm and kind; the wild worries tormenting me faded slowly as her warmth transferred to me. Her fingers moved in slow circles, and I knew she was feeling how thin my hand was, how the bones could be felt from all angles – even through the palm.

After a while, she simply turned and wrapped her arms around me. It was traditional for her to squeeze mercilessly when she hugged me, but there was no squeezing this time. Apparently, she'd decided that I was a good bit too fragile for that. I felt her hands on my back, feeling the rib bones and spine protruding. I sat there like the lump I was, basking in her nearness, not caring about anything else on the planet but her arms and her scent and her warmth. So what if I could not hug her back?

Finally, she sat back and regarded me grimly.

"You're so thin… Nadir says that if you hadn't called him when you did, you would have been dead by now. He says that he had 'much to do' to bring you back." Her eyes held mine fast, searching for my reaction. "He also says that you aren't safe yet and that the damage you did to yourself could have lasting effects – your heart, especially. And your kidneys."

She was right about that. To this day I suffer the ill effects of starvation. I never did recover all the strength I lost – and though I have better days and worse days, my heart does give me the occasionally spell.

But I digress.

She gripped my shoulders and they were so wasted that her fingers wrapped around them easily. I could see from the look in her eyes that she wanted to shake me until my brain rattled in my head.

"Do you hear me? You could have died – you could _still_ die. It's not like you're in dire poverty. Why couldn't you have just ordered out Chinese? Anything! If I didn't love you so much I'd kill you myself." Her tone darkened, and I realized that she wasn't simply upset with me – she was absolutely terrified for my life. Though I had made up my mind that life was certainly preferable to death at this point, I still was not as frightened of the prospect as she clearly was. "You're just sitting there, staring at me. Why don't you talk to me? What do you have to say for yourself?"

The truth, my patient listener, is that there was nothing I could say. I knew nothing about the effects of starvation beyond what I was physically experiencing at the moment. It certainly felt possible that I might keel over at any moment. What I felt then was not fear, though I ought to have been afraid for my life. I felt… apologetic. I regretted what I had let happen. I was sorry for her pain and worry, sorry for her lost time on tour and all those in the world who would now miss out on hearing her Voice, sorry for my lost opportunity to carry my beloved into the paradise I designed for her - I had so much to be sorry for, and no way to apologize.

"I do not intend to die." It was the most comforting thing I could think to say. "I am sorry, Christine, to cause you such pain."

Now she was the one with no response. She only sat and stared and shook her head in disbelief.

"It isn't _my_ pain I'm worried about, you stupid, stupid man." Her words were harsh, but her tone was as loving and gentle as any I'd ever heard. "Now let me see what you've done to yourself."

Christine unwrapped everything Nadir had wrapped, uncovered everything he had covered. It was a bit mortifying, but I hadn't the strength or the will to resist her. If she wanted to see everything, that was certainly her right. She pored over me, exclaiming over my wasted limbs and swollen feet, my skeletal torso and sore-wracked flesh. She traced the line of my jaw and cheekbones, clearly visible now, with barely a veneer of flesh over them. When she was done, she went to the door and called for Nadir.

They conferred in the corner, again in hushed tones, so that I could not make out what they said. I do know, however, that I was the subject of discussion. Their eyes constantly flicked over to where I sat. I caught words like _'supplements'_ and '_bed rest' _and '_rehabilitation_.' Finally, they turned to come over to me.

Christine stopped halfway and looked around. I saw her widening eyes take in the domed ceiling with its sculpted moldings, the fine bamboo furniture, the Yamaha grand piano dominating the far side of the room, the inlaid glass light-vents, the rounded doorways leading into the rest of the house; she took everything in, barely blinking. I realized that she truly had been so absorbed with me that she had not registered her surroundings at all. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged.

"Do you like it?" I asked, suddenly shy. "I designed it and built it with you always in mind. It is yours, if you want it…or…"

She tore her gaze away from the convex bookshelves and their contents. Her face clearly asked the question, though she said nothing. I almost couldn't ask. This was no time for such things; I was hardly in a fitting condition to ask anything of anyone. But she looked so picturesque, standing there with rippling light illuminating her sweet face. I knew exactly what I wanted, and I wanted it _now._ I gestured for Nadir to give me his hand – which wound up being his entire arm; my legs would not support me at all, but I _would_ stand for this moment.

Shakily, shakily, I gained my feet. Fortunately, she came to me, for I never could have made it to her. Nadir gave up his grip and I tottered there, determined to hold my ground.

"Or it could be ours, if you wish. Can it be ours, Christine?"


	53. Fine

"Ours?" she echoed.

"Yes. I mean, will you allow me to live here with you – in the same home – and take meals together, and sing, and attend the theatre together?" I was tiring fast, but determined to hold my ground until I had my answer.

Christine gazed around for a few moments and drew a slow breath. I don't know what I expected to happen at that moment. Maybe I believed she would scoff at the idea or perhaps I believed that she would answer quickly and easily, _"Yes,"_ and all my troubles would be instantly solved forever. Neither happened, of course. This was the real world, not some story-book fantasy.

My strength failed and she helped me sit again. Once she'd seen to my comfort, she sat beside me, and turned on that look of intense scrutiny, lightly chewing her lip.

"Are you asking me to marry you, Erik?"

"Oh, good heavens _no!"_ I exclaimed, hardly able to process the thought. "No!"

She and Nadir continued to stare at me, their faces expressionless, and I realized I'd made another of my infamous faux-pas. Again. I stammered, desperately trying to right my wrong.

"Not that I don't wish to marry you, Christine. I do…at least I am nearly certain I do. But I could not do that to you. It would be unfair." They kept staring and I stumbled over my own words, trying desperately to find the ones that would answer the questions they would not ask. "To you."

Christine cocked her head to one side, her bright eyes fixed on mine, so much like an inquisitive bird that I almost smiled.

"And what, exactly, would you be doing to me?"

Nadir emitted a noise that was half-snort, half-choke and abruptly left the room. Christine sat there with no sign of relenting. The moment I'd waited so long for was here and (of course) it was not the bliss I'd anticipated. No, it had to be a moment filled with awkwardness and uncomfortable silences.

"I'd…in marriage…when two people marry…it is expected…" Oh, how could I say it? Such an indelicate, coarse thing – and here I sat, about to speak of it before an Angel!

Oh, patient listener, please don't think I am taking the high road, trying to make myself seem as chaste and pure as a monk. I'd thought about it, naturally. I'd even anticipated it with feverish excitement. But…no matter how deeply I'd considered it, I never once actually imagined the potential reality of it. Speaking it would make my base and unnatural desire known, and therefore, real. I turned my embarrassed gaze to the floor.

"It is a given, is it not, that a marriage should be…consummated?" Painfully, I dragged my eyes back to hers. "I could not bear to put you in that position. I do not wish to torment you, Christine, or burden you. I only want to be near you. And I thought you might be happy here, above the music, so I built this for you."

"Let me get this straight," she said, incredulously, "you built this place, ruined your health, shut down the symphony hall, and almost _died_ just so that we could have dinner together?"

Hearing it put that way, I felt very foolish indeed. I had nothing to say.

"And where will you go if I take your offer of this place, but don't let you live here?"

"To my apartments below. To Nadir's. To hell. It would hardly matter." I could feel the effects of starvation and ill-health weighing on me. I was tired…so very, very tired. My eyes drifted shut, mercifully blocking out the light.

"And back to your old habits, too, I suspect." She sighed softly. "You do know, don't you, that this is the 21st century? Married people can do – or not do – whatever they want, whenever they want. You don't exactly have to hang the bedsheets out the window in the morning."

I felt a moment of relief, which was instantly beaten back by a thousand other excellent reasons why we really ought not marry.

"I spent all my money building this, and put myself in considerable debt, to boot. I couldn't give you a comfortable life, or fine clothing, or jewels."

"Again – 21st century. Trust me, my love, I made enough on this one tour to support us both for a few years. And I'm sure your newfound fame will have its returns as well." She sounded amused, which irritated me. Could she not see that there was nothing remotely funny here?

"I couldn't even give you a last name…"

"21st century! _You_ could take _my_ last name, if you wanted. Or not."

_Erik Daae? _I thought. How odd that sounded.

"But I'm so much older than you, and sick at that. Surely you do not want to waste your glory years bound to a doddering old man?" My tone had taken on a disgusting air of self-pity, but there was nothing to be done about it.

"I'll spend my years however I see fit – and get used to the idea that it's mine to decide whether they're wasted or not." Christine snapped.

Obstinate! I'd forgotten how _obstinate_ she could be.

"Fine then!" I spat, finally goaded into a temper. "Marry me! See what comes of it!"

"Fine!" she spat back. "I will!"

My mouth was suddenly so dry, I could not even swallow. I heard the low, steady tick-tock of the clock.

"You…will?" There was no anger in my voice now. She'd tricked me, as she has always been able to trick me, into doing the thing I believed could not be done.

"I will," she murmured, and her Voice had lost its irritation, too. "Of course I will."

"I meant everything I said, Christine. It will not be easy." I had to be sure she was aware of the morass into which she was diving.

"I never thought it would." She had taken my hand in hers and was stroking it absently. "Especially with a man like you."

I meant to ask her what the deuce she meant by _that_, but her soft touch, the comfortable sofa, and this ill-timed flood of emotion all conspired against me. I slumped back, asleep.


	54. When I woke

When I woke, I was back in the white bed, once more swaddled in flannel pajamas. For the longest time, I refused to open my eyes. I'd had such a sweet dream that night – Christine coming home to me and obstinately insisting on marriage. From the color of my eyelids, I could tell it was daytime, and by the smells emanating from the kitchen, it must be morning.

Opening my eyes meant submitting myself to another day of bland convalescence and loneliness, with Nadir nagging me to rest, eat, rest, eat. Since the day would hold nothing for me, it seemed nonsensical to acknowledge it at all.

Bacon?

The morning smell I was detecting was…definitely bacon. Which suggested ham. Ham is pork, and Nadir is Muslim.

I was becoming quite excited.

Muslims do _not_ touch – let alone eat – pork. If pork was being prepared, then it must mean that someone else was in the house. And there was only one other person who could possibly be in the house feeling comfortable enough to cook.

It had not been a dream. Christine was home, here, with me. And she was making breakfast in the kitchen.

My eyes snapped open, and I smiled at the whiteness around me. Without looking at a clock, I knew it was 9:30 in the morning, because that is when Christine was accustomed to having breakfast. With some effort, I turned over and found that the blankets to my left were rumpled and the down pillow dented.

She'd slept _here_, right beside me!

I pushed myself to a sitting position and saw that she'd left the bathroom door cracked. Sweetly scented steam was still wafting into the bedroom. Below the imperative odor of cooking meat, I smelled her soap, her shampoo – and I could make out a glimpse of the towel she'd dropped on the floor.

C major. I could already hear the flutes…or…no. Clarinets. Better it should be clarinets. Yes, clarinets first. Maybe flutes – or even piccolos – later. The music would waft in softly, so that listeners would barely notice it had begun…

Not for months had the music come so clearly to me. With a superhuman effort, I dragged my attention back to the matter at hand. After nearly a year's absence, Christine was home. I wanted to see her and hold her. To do that, I had to make it to the kitchen.

One does not want one's kitchen next to one's bedroom. Who wants to sleep all night smelling stale cooking? Neither does one want to trek across the entire house for one's morning coffee. My design put the kitchen two hallways down from the master bedroom. I felt certain that once I reached the hallways, I would be able to lean on the wall for support. It was getting from the bed to the hall that presented the greatest challenge.

I swung my wasted legs over the side of the bed and slid down until they met the thick carpet. It was a matter of courage, then, to make them bear my weight. As expected they, and the whole of my body, protested at the unwonted exercise. I stood for a moment, gaining my balance. It felt as though the air and light were weighing me down. For a man who used to climb theatre rigging like a sailor, this was an entirely humbling experience. Finally, I felt as though I might risk a step. It went better than expected, so I took another. My knees buckled and I nearly fell. Only the nearby dresser saved me. Doubtless, if I fell I would not get up until someone came to save me. That idea nearly froze me in place.

Soon enough, hunger and desire joined forces to move me on my way. Triumphantly, I gained the hallway. Halfway to the kitchen, I realized that I'd left my mask behind. It was sitting uselessly on the self-same dresser that had saved me from a fall. Oh, the irony.

The sound of rattling dishes and silver informed me that breakfast was being served. I had to move as quickly to avoid meeting my beloved half-way. There was certainly no time for mask-retrieval, and even if there had been, I did not have the strength. I accepted the return of my self-consciousness and forced myself forward.

My tiny reserve of strength was quickly waning, but the wall provided the support I needed to keep rolling forward, however unsteadily. I stumbled through the archway just as Christine lifted the tray. She turned, saw me, and abruptly returned the tray to the counter with a nerve-wracking crash. Orange juice splashed on the tiled counter and dripped to the floor.

"What do you think you're _doing_?" she exclaimed, at the exact moment I blurted, "Do you honestly intend to marry me?"

"Not if you kill yourself first," she snapped, and then she was hurrying across the room, wrapping her arm around my waist and helping me to a chair. I hated my weakness, but sitting down felt wonderful.

"But if I don't?"

"_If_ you don't, then yes."

"Good. Is that bacon?"

Christine rolled her eyes, then began to clean up the spill. "It's _turkey_ bacon. It's better for you – besides, hog farms are terrible polluters." She brought two plates to the table and let me inspect the oddly colored strips of meat beside the heaps of eggs. "Nadir says you are still too weak to take much food, but I figured you could always stop when you were finished."

I took a bite and found the _turkey_ bacon to be palatable.

"It is good that you've come back," I muttered between bites. "I need staff paper and pencils."

"Nice to know I'm still useful…" Her tone drew my attention, but no hint of sarcasm showed on her pretty features. There was egg on her face…but only in the literal sense. "I'll go down and get some for you right after breakfast. Nadir will be here soon to make sure you don't kill yourself wandering about the house."

"Christine…"

"Mmm?"

"I missed you."

"I missed you, too."

She stood calmly, carried her plate to the trashcan, scraped the remnants of her breakfast, carried it to the sink, rinsed it, washed it, dried it, and carefully returned it to the cabinet.

Then she ran to my side and enveloped me in a desperate, clinging hug. Her face was pressed against my neck; I could feel her tears wetting the skin there. Her shoulders were shaking and her arms kept tightening convulsively around me.

I was startled…no…I was amazed – and I was more than a little alarmed.

"Don't cry…" I stammered. "Don't cry, Christine…Please?"

But she went on like that for five full minutes. Slowly the storm tapered off to sniffles and gasps. She released me and reached for a napkin, with which she dried her tears and blew her nose. When her face was dry and her breathing composed she hugged me again, this time with the gentleness I was used to.

She pressed her cheek to mine and whispered fiercely, "_Don't you ever leave me, Erik. Ever"_

And I said the only thing I could think of, which was, "If you won't, I won't."

Christine stood and nodded – then headed for the door.

"Where…" I began.

"Staff paper. Pencils." She was smiling a little now. I felt as though I'd weathered a terrible storm and was just seeing the first rays of sunshine.

"Did you say Nadir was coming?"

"Any minute now."

"Would you bring my mask?"

I expected an argument, but got none. Christine either understood, or she had simply picked and won her battle for the day. She retrieved my mask and then went in searching of my composing tools. I sat in my chair, well-fed and quietly contemplative. The truth was that every time Christine won a battle with me, I seemed to win, too.


	55. Trouble in paradise

I will not bother you with the details of my convalescence. There is not much to tell, and very little interest in the picture of an ugly old man resting, eating, and writing music. To be sure, it was an extraordinarily peaceful time, and not at all lonely. Either Christine or Nadir was constantly at my side, and in the rare moments I was alone, I had pleasant memories to warm me until their return.

I will tell you that I complained bitterly in the beginning about the indignities of being unable to care for myself. Nadir listened patiently to my whining for quite some time before he stopped me one afternoon with a look and a rumbling clearing of his throat. When he was certain he had my attention, he sat back in his chair with that insufferably cultured air of his and said,

"Sometimes, my friend, when the foundation is bad enough, the only thing to do is raze the whole building and begin afresh."

There is something in that. It is the crux of the whole thing, in fact. Make no mistake about it; before I found Christine, I was a monster. My mind was filled with nothing but poison and sewage. My thoughts seethed with hatred and reeked of death. If I was not actively evil, it was only because I removed myself from my potential victims.

Since rejoining humanity, I've found that my story is very nearly a unique one. Not because of my talents or my depravity (there are plenty of talented and depraved people in this world) nor because of my god-forsaken face (I'm sure I am not the only ugly man ever to live), but because I _did_ change.

Most people, for good or for ill, remain much the same throughout their lives. Sweet children become gentle adults; sour little brats become mean old codgers. Once set on a track, most follow the rails without fail to their conclusion, be it joy or despair.

But, by some incredible stroke of luck, my particular train was derailed. Christine was the author of my liberation. With those strong and capable hands, she yanked the festering splinters from my heart and replaced them with a healing unguent of unconditional love. But had my pride not been broken entirely, I might never have seen _how_ unconditional her love – and Nadir's friendship – really was.

In the long weeks I spent in torpor, gathering strength to face my suddenly glowing future, I had plenty of time to contemplate my extraordinary good luck. There were no exigencies, no emergencies, I was not obliged to hide, and my nascent good qualities were constantly being trotted out and displayed to me. Yes, Nadir and Christine wrapped me in a little cocoon where I could safely complete this unlikely metamorphosis from monster to man.

Outside my cocoon all was not so peaceful. One cannot present the world with its foremost soprano and a library of sensational music and then disappear entirely without consequences. That the symphony hall had shut down and sprouted a dome did not escape the notice of the music world. Christine's internationally acclaimed tour and its mysterious termination sparked a furor of indignation and woke that old snake – curiosity. Smelling a double story, the press followed the paper trail of her plane tickets and cab fares here, and hounded her appearances in the newly-opened theatre with cameras and questions. Her fans, likewise, wanted to know precisely what had happened.

Only later would I discover that many an article was written conjecturing (quite correctly) that Christine was holed up in a 'love-nest' atop the symphony hall with the masked composer whose music she'd been performing. Of course, the lurid details of the goings on here printed by these publications were entirely the dreams of the responsible authors. Shall I highlight the extreme ignorance of the writers? Several stories (and I have placed them lovingly in scrapbook of oddities) describe me as '_young' _and _'dashing'_ and even '_handsome_.'

Our private lives were not just fodder for the writers of trash magazines. A thousand clamoring letters every week glutted Christine's mail, each _demanding_ to know where she was, who her inamorato might be, and the story behind her sudden rise to fame. Every writer, whether 'fan' or journalist, rudely assumed the right to know our story as though we were already public figures. She – and Nadir - shredded and recycled those uninvited invasions to our privacy without even a whisper to me.

The brouhaha went on for several months, and might have gone on for many months more, had I not brought up a delicate subject over dinner one quiet evening.

"Christine, I've finished my work." She looked up from her dilled salmon with raised eyebrows that enjoined me to continue. "And I would like for you to look at it."

I'd brought it to the table with me, tucked under my arm. I handed it across and watched her face as she read it through. I could not help but think of the first time she'd seen my music, how she'd smiled and blushed.

This time she just smiled, and her smile grew as she turned the pages.

"Erik, is this, " she swallowed hard, "our wedding?"

"I haven't even changed the names to protect the guilty. The only role left to be cast is the officiator – and he is not required to sing."

"But…where's the rest of it? The instrumental…?

"There is none. It is an entirely a cappella opera."

She blinked, looked down at the music in her hands, then back to me.

"When were you thinking…"

I cleared my throat and tried desperate futilely to sound casual.

"I am at your service."

"And the symphony hall? Is it not booked solid for a year?"

"Oh, we won't perform this. Not in front of an audience."

But her eyes were lit up like a shop window before Christmas.

"But of course we will! Oh, it's too perfect! That would certainly solve the problem of witnesses AND it would get them off our backs!"

She stopped speaking abruptly and shot a guilty glance my way.

"We need witnesses? And who's this 'them' on our backs?" Christine's gaze became decidedly dodgy. "Christine? What's going on?"

"Weeellll…" Just from the way she drew out the word, I set my teeth for the worst. "We've become a little bit…world renowned…over the last year, you see." And she went on to explain my fame, her fame, and the pomp, circumstance, and absolute invasion of privacy that goes with the status.

By the time she was done, I had a very clear picture of the crisis that faced us – clearer than Christine's. I had realized something that had entirely escaped her dear, innocent mind.

Fame was the best possible thing for an innocent like Christine. And fame in reclusion might be acceptable even for me. But fame in the public eye?

It would be fatal for men like the Khan and the Phantom.

"Send Nadir to me." I commanded. "Again, she blinked, so I amended, "Please?"


	56. Betrayal

When Nadir came, nearly fifteen minutes later, I spent a few moments gathering my thoughts. He was only in danger by proxy – should I be recognized, our old adversaries would naturally assume that he was nearby. He had stayed on here for months, helping Christine with the unwieldy task of caring for me. He only took a few days here and there to check on his hired hands' care of his farm. Though I was still weak, my health was returned enough that I could care for myself ; I hardly needed a babysitter any longer. The truth was that he had become used to the company of friends and so had we.

"Nadir, you must realize that you could have gone home weeks ago." I began, not sure how I wished to tackle this prickly subject.

"But the tea and the ladies here are so lovely. How could I tear myself away?" He raised a jetty eyebrow. "She said you were all in a fluster about something. Have I finally worn out my welcome?"

"Don't be ridiculous, man. It is not that at all. It is only that you may be in danger if you remain here."

The eyebrow attained new heights.

"From whom?"

"It has come to my attention that my music has become world famous. I think that about covers the full stage of our exploits, wouldn't you agree?"

He sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. "But you were not "_Erik"_ in the old days, my friend. I doubt the connection has been made between that name and the old you. And I must point out that those old days are more than a decade behind us."

"But when our wedding opera is performed, it is likely there will be reporters with cameras. Unfortunately, all the changes I've made have been internal. They'd know me in a heart-beat."

"You _are_ rather unforgettable," Khan chuckled. "And I can easily imagine that one or two of our old acquaintances might still harbor ill-feelings towards you. But I fail to see the danger in this for me."

"You fail to see how they might decide that where there's fire, they might also find smoke?"

"Erik, old man, have you ever tried to catch smoke?"

His eyes twinkled mischievously; there was more than a sliver of the old spy left in him. It occurred to me that my old friend might actually enjoy the challenge of a good game of cat'n'mouse after so many years of uneventful gardening – even were he the mouse. Wonderful; I could now clear my conscience of worry for him.

"No, but I've put out more than one fire."

"I'd say that is more of a concern." Nadir folded his fingers together. "So why would you put yourself in that particularly unpleasant position?"

"I wrote an opera…"

"Naturally."

"And Christine has her heart set on its performance. She says we must have witnesses, and she seems to believe that it would solve some of her…ahem…publicity problems."

"And my guess is that you are more swayed by the former than either of the latter. You spoil her."

"Need I remind you what she has given me?" Perhaps my tone was a bit harsh, but I think my defensiveness was forgivable, considering.

"I did not say you spoil her _too much_. But I do not think this is the wisest decision you've made. Yes, if they discover that you have not truly disappeared they may track you down and kill you. And a wedding onstage in front of thousands of people would certainly increase the likelihood of your discovery."

Nadir paused significantly. I was all ears.

"But I think there is an alternative you've overlooked." Nadir finished his tea and set it aside with a muted _clink_. "They may decide they'd rather punish you; visit upon you a measure of all the pain and ruin you've wrought. And how do you think they might go about that?"

My guts twisted themselves into a tight knot and my hands went numb. I found myself fighting for breath and my newly weakened heart beat painfully against my ribcage.

"No…" I managed.

Nadir's smile suddenly seemed less friendly and much more shark-like.

"Do you think," he said, in a tone of casual musing, "That they might decide to wait until your happiness was at its zenith and your strength at its _Nadir_ to rip from you the person you love best in the world, just to savor your suffering as you twist on the hook?"

While I sat in horrified paralysis, he stood and carried his teacup to the sink and rinsed it.

"Is it possible," he continued, without turning to face me, "that they might have already made deals with someone you once knew, in exchange for his peaceful life? With someone they thought might have a chance of tracking you down?"

'_Impossible,'_ I wanted to scream, but I knew better. This was no longer my wise and gentle Nadir – I was in the room with the Khan and may the fates help me.

"Is it conceivable, my _friend_, that this person could have waited patiently while you created a life for yourself, then painstakingly inserted himself into the warm little nucleus of that life? Made himself a trusted friend and ally?" He did turn then, and my mouth went dry. His eyes were a cold and deadly black, without a hint of kindness.

"I'll kill you," I whispered, but the threat hardly seemed valid with my shaking hands refusing my control. In the old days, his treacherous throat would already be wearing a Punjab necktie… Now, terror and weakness glued me to my seat.

"I did worry about that in the beginning. I pondered and pondered how I might weaken you; how I might defeat the formidable Phantom. Imagine my relief when you did me the kindness of breaking yourself down so nicely…"

"Where is she?"

His predatory smile widened. "What a good question. Where _is_ she? Perhaps she went for a little stroll, while we two old friends caught up on old times. Do you think? Or perhaps she's very nearby…"

He was using the same lines on me that we'd used on our victims before. Was Christine '_very nearby'_? Lying cold and still in the next room, perhaps, with a slender dagger in her heart? I tasted caustic bile.

"What if I told you that you could still save her? What if I offered you a little trade?" He reached into his breast pocket and produced a little vial of clear liquid. "You swallow this…you know what it is. It will give you a nice, painful, slow death – one that should satisfy my…associates – and I won't have to kill your little songbird. I'd much prefer that; she is a good, delightful woman and I've grown fond of her."

The clear liquid caught a ray of light so that it seemed to glow in his hand. Yes, I knew what this was. This special formulation created by distilling the poison of the Death Cap mushroom had been a favorite of ours for years. If I took it, I knew precisely what I faced; '_painful_' did not begin to describe it.

"How can I believe that you won't simply kill her anyway? Or haven't already?"

He shrugged. "All you can be certain of is that if you don't, she truly has no chance. But I swear to you that this is an honest trade. I'd not lie to a dying man."

When I took the vial, my hands did not shake.

"Wait. Take off the mask. We must have proof positive that it is really you doing the dying." Nadir pointed to a tiny video camera cunningly concealed in his left hand – the same one we'd used years before when proof was required.

There was no point in modesty now. I was defeated. Without fanfare, I pulled the mask from my face and dropped it to the floor. It was not without a certain sick amusement that I noticed Nadir avert his eyes.

I tilted the vial and drained its lethal contents.


	57. A Monster

I sat there, glaring daggers at Nadir Khan, wishing him death and waiting for the first cramps to set in. From the mushroom itself, symptoms would not begin for hours; our special little compound included a few agents that made the onset of symptoms nearly instantaneous. He sat there patiently, pointedly not looking at me. A little '_click'_ distracted us both. Nadir glanced down to his camera.

"Damn," he said, softly, "I seem to have run out of tape."

Impatiently, he tapped the little machine.

"These bloody things never were much good for long, drawn-out deaths. Much better for a quick stabbing. Do you remember, Erik, how we used to carry extra film in our pants cuffs – just in case?" He tucked the recorder in his pocket and checked his cuff. "But I forgot this time. Looks like I'm going to have to go get more film from the guest room. I don't suppose you could prepare to have some convincing death throes ready by the time I get back? Preferably with convulsions, foaming at the mouth, and vomiting? It's a lovely tile floor in here; I'm sure it won't stain…"

"You…unholy…bastard," I whispered in stunned wonder. "Why…? What did I just drink?"

"I juiced a few portabella mushrooms and added some soap for taste. Forgive me if it wasn't perfect – not like you've ever tasted the _real_ stuff. The smell was spot on, don't you think?" Nadir tapped his nose. "But there's a method to my madness. The first bit I told you was the absolute truth, Erik. Years ago, our old employer contacted me and informed me that I could either punish you for him and profit handsomely or lose everything I'd built for myself. Apparently your decision to retire hurt his feelings terribly – he felt you owed him your life." He smiled at me with that warm, kindly smile I'd come to know and anticipate. "And you must forgive me for accepting; at the time, I thought you were a heartless, soulless, worthless monster."

I nodded. It was true; I could hardly fault him.

"The only catch was that you were a _dangerous_ monster. So, once I found you, I waited and hoped you would grow old and less wary. I looked for anything that might present an opportunity. I wasn't lying about his wanting you to suffer, either. He wanted you whimpering and begging for mercy before you died. When this whole Christine thing started, I told him I could do that by murdering your girlfriend. I never told him _who_ your girlfriend was or _where_ you were hiding. My price is high, you know, especially since I 'retired'. I thought he might take that information and give the job to a less expensive operative."

"Then why am I still alive? You could have had my head without even working for it months ago." The aforementioned head was spinning; in fact, my whole world was spinning.

"The man I set out to destroy was a monster. The man who came to visit me? He was nearly human. And then Christine came, and we talked…and I told her your story. And I realized that you were certainly no monster." Then he reached out and took my hand in a gesture I recognized – I'd reached out to Christine that same way when I begged her forgiveness. "_I _am the monster, Erik. And I am sorry."

I started to protest, but he waved my words away with an angry hand.

"No. I am. _I _pulled you out of the gutter and delivered you to that man. When I found you, you were an entirely empty vessel. He trained you to kill. I taught you to stalk your prey. And then I hated you – feared you - for becoming the machine we taught you to be. And then I see what you became, years and years after I'd given you up for a lost cause, with just a little understanding and little kindness. I could have done that for you so easily. And now, I see what love has done to you…it's amazing."

"I'm a half-dead shell."

"You're a genius with a penchant for heroism. How could I even begin to think about damaging you? I may as well turn the Grand Canyon into a landfill." He took the camera into his hand and gazed at it. "You don't need to be destroyed, you need to be protected. And now I have an authentic record of your murder – or I will after we stage your death scene."

"We couldn't have staged the whole thing," I asked wryly, "and saved me the heart attack?" But I knew the answer before he spoke it.

"Our employer is a killer. He has been for a long, long time. You know the look men get when they are certain of their deaths. It can't be faked. You had to believe. Now the rest is theatrics, so get the vinegar and baking soda and lets get down to it."

Nadir grinned and started to leave, but I had one question.

"Nadir? What would you have done if I had refused your poison? If I'd offered up Christine to save my own life?"

He did not turn back to look at me. His shoulders slumped and I could see the toll years and guilt had taken on him.

"I would have killed you." He stated calmly, but then so quietly that I strained to hear him, he muttered, " …and then myself."

Vinegar and baking soda have a beastly flavor, but they make a perfect foam. Turkey gravy and peas with a bit of ketchup and coffee grounds make passable vomit. I was too weak to convulse well, but I suppose my weakness made the 'death' seem more real. I have never watched the video myself, but Nadir tells me it's some of my best work.

He told me that he mailed the two cassettes off in an envelope with a note which read,

"The Phantom is Dead."

Then he smiled, clasped my shoulder in his old, rough hand and said,

"Long live Erik."


	58. What's In a Name

"Then how is he supposed to produce his music? How is he supposed to perform? He just got out of his box and now you're trying to put him back in it!"

Christine was not as impressed by Nadir's clever plan as I. In fact, she was having an extraordinarily hard time accepting the Phantom's 'death.' We'd explained to her that it was absolutely necessary to prevent any future danger, but she seemed to think that, between the two of us, we could have come up with something better.

To this day, I think she is wrong; I would not be talking with you now were I not privy to some very specific information regarding the health status of my old acquaintances.

"My dear, it's hardly as though Erik will be unable to publish! None of the people we intended to fool will associate the composer with the killer. He can still give his works to the world, so I am confused with regards to your protestations. Don't you want him to be safe?"

"Of course I do…but who will those works be credited to? Just Erik? They already want to know who 'Erik' is. They want photos, stories; they want interviews."

I cringed at the very thought, but she ignored my sour expression and went on.

"And he _should_ be known! He should be more than a first name. It's horrible that only a handful of people know him for who he is."

"It really isn't that horrible." I muttered. Always having been a creature of the shadows, I was more than a little suspicious of the limelight. "I'm really quite happy."

And I was. I was. How could I possibly be otherwise?

"Actually," Nadir broke in, "she has a point. I've been thinking about your plans. You realize, Erik, that unless you have some form of identification, proving that you exist, you and Christine cannot be legally married at all – whether or not you do it in front of an audience."

"What?"

"You have to exist to get married, my friend."

"Don't be ridiculous. I obviously exist. I'm sitting right here in front of you."

"Not in the legal eyes of this (or any) country, you don't." Nadir tilted his head to one side, "How did you get all the materials to build this place? The building license?"

"Connections." I grunted. This was not going in the desired direction. "Perhaps a little 'persuasion.' Nothing extraordinary."

"Do you know your social security number?"

"I…" No smart response was forthcoming. "No."

"We _can't_ get married, then," Christine whispered.

"Not in the eyes of the state; not until he establishes himself as an existing person."

We all sat in our respective places, unmoving. Christine was studying her hands, I was watching Christine, and Nadir was watching me. Finally, Nadir – ever his useful self – piped up.

"Were you born in a hospital, Erik?" His voice was soft, kind, almost apologetic.

"I have no idea."

"Do you remember your last name?"

"You know I despise…" I growled. I did not intend to growl, but that is how it came out.

"Of course, but that is hardly material now. Despise her, despise all she did; if you have no identification of your own, _she_ holds the key to your personhood."

"His mother?" asked Christine.

"Naturally." Nadir looked to her, seeing that he was getting nowhere with me. "She would be able to access his birth certificate and his social security number – he wouldn't."

"Then we have to find her!" Christine smiled as though the answer were right there and so very simple. "We just have to find her and get her to give us what we need!"

"Dammit, Nadir," I rose from my seat, unable to contain the growing disgust I felt, "she's probably dead now." _And good riddance,_ I thought.

"You should pray that she is not."

"And what makes you think she would do this for me, anyway? She hated me. I disgusted her." I made my way to the thick panels of glass that lit this room during the day. Though I could not see out, the smear of blue that represented the sky and the vague grey blur that was the city below served as an excuse to turn away – anything to avoid the pitying eyes of my companions.

"That was years ago, Erik." I don't know if Nadir was trying to be comforting; if so, he failed miserably. "Those feelings may have…changed."

I scoffed. One might even say I gave a disparaging chuckle.

"She might even feel guilty for what she did," added Christine. Unlike Nadir, her Voice was not neutral. "And if she doesn't, you could _make_ her feel guilty – or at least stupid. Show her what sort of man her son turned out to be! She threw away a genius and an artist. She deserves to know what she lost."

Christine moved to stand close behind me, her hand wrapped around mine.

"I want to be your wife, Erik. By law. I want you to be my husband." She turned me around until I was looking straight into her earnest, angry eyes. "She already took your childhood from you. Are you going to let her take your marriage, too?"

"Christine, you don't understand…" I could force no more words. An ungodly lump of anger and frustration had clenched my throat.

"No, I don't suppose I do. It's awful and I'm sorry." She had both my hands now; I've told you how that affects me. "But I'll go with you and help you, so how bad can it be?"

"I don't even know where she lives, or if she's alive at all." It was a weak argument, doomed to failure even before Nadir stood up and gave us his evil smile.

"Give me a name, my friend. A name and twenty-four hours."

I looked down to Christine, my most beloved, then across to Nadir, my only friend. Each had saved me, time and again. They thought this was for _me. _They did not know that I could easily hide in a hole for the rest of my life. I did not need a name or this vaunted _personhood_. I did not even need the fame attached to my work, though that was a pleasant benefit. I needed only Christine (with or without a marriage license – what could society's licenses possibly mean to a man like me?), and some peace. But they wanted so badly to see 'justice' done in my case, and Christine clearly needed that legal validation of our love.

They thought this was for me. Their concern was so pure, so perfectly innocent.

I would do this thing for them, no matter how deeply it cut. I would go back to the 'mother' who abandoned me, and beg her for a favor.

"Her name was Madeline Valliere."


	59. Madeline

Twenty-four hours? Hardly. Nadir was back before nightfall holding a small notebook with a worn leather cover that I recognized from years before. The pad of paper inside might change – the leather exterior never did. And I knew that he never truly discarded his little notepads, either. They were stored carefully somewhere safe, in chronological order, in case the information within should become useful again. Somewhere, I am sure there was extensive information on me. This notebook likely held all revealed by his search into Christine and that boy's backgrounds – and now whatever information he had dredged up regarding the woman who had borne me. I wondered idly if I might not need to take a look at it someday…

But I digress.

Nadir returned quickly, but his expression lacked triumph. He simply looked…surprised.

"Erik, do you remember _anything_ about your childhood before you, ahem, left home?" he asked, his tone cautious.

I'd avoided that very thing for years, but I threw my thoughts back now.

"A room." I carefully kept my nose buried in the book I held. "Four walls. Regular meals. Regular reminders that I was not to emerge nor show my…face. Music constantly coming from somewhere distant: Brahms…Mahler…Mendelssohn. Not that I knew it then. Punishment...for living, I suppose. A twenty-dollar bill and an invitation to leave as quickly as I could."

Nadir cleared his throat. He seemed distinctly ill at ease. "That…that would make sense. You see, Erik. Madeline Valliere is…"

"Dead?" I interjected hopefully.

"Nooo…" he said. "She's the second violinist for the New York Philharmonic.ℓ Or she was, for about fifteen years. Erik, your mother is – was - a great musician. Now retired and living well in the Upper West Side of Manhattan."

"Musician…"

"Yes. I'm astounded that you do not already know of her."

I could only give him a bewildered shrug. Maybe she had been before my time – or perhaps, just perhaps, I had consciously _not _known her.

"Your father…"

"_Father?"_ I choked on my own spit. Never once had I thought of the man who occasionally appeared in memory as such, but I suppose he must have been…

"…has been dead for ten years, but apparently was much involved in the arts district in SoHo. He was an agent for several trendy artists. I could list them, if you like."

My book lay open on my knee, forgotten. Breath by breath I recovered from my choking fit.

"No…no. Not necessary. Second chair violinist. _Second_? How old is she?"

"Your mother is currently sixty-eight years of age…."

"Which would make her only eighteen when I was born." I mused.

"Yes, young. Your father would have been seventy-four this year." Nadir cleared his throat. "I, uh, have a photo, if you'd like to see what she looks like."

"Oh, I do!" Christine chimed in. She'd just come from her Voice exercises in the music room.

"No. Thank you." This whole thing seemed less and less like a good idea with each passing moment. In my most secret thoughts, I had long wished ill on Madeline Valliere; not only for despising then abandoning me, but for the more unpardonable sin of bearing me and making me live. Knowing that she was only a bit of a girl in the beginning did nothing to assuage the loathing I felt. This loathing opened the doorway to a locked room; I could see the Phantom peering out, waiting… "I'm sure I shall see her only too soon."

Nadir took Christine to show her the picture. I stayed where I was and tried desperately to re-immerse myself in my book, but my thoughts wanted attention. What did it mean that I did not exist in the eyes of the state and country I lived in? That I simply _was not_ – even though the world was currently rocked in the throes of my music.

Over the years, I'd donned dozens of identities, none of them my own. It never occurred to me to contemplate the meaning of being a _person _of my own; one who could be known by other people, just as though I was one of them. I thought of the crowds of people in the cities, the farmers in the rural lands…their bustle, their noise, their cruelties and kindnesses... I'd passed hundreds of times through the thick of humanity, but I'd always been there as an _other_. I was a predator among them; there to kill, to end their short and brutal lives, so that I might live - and live well.

And now I had this peculiar opportunity to be given a number and a name. I could be counted among the throng. I could marry; should I have children, they would have a legitimate father. I could pay taxes and choose leaders. I could almost be a man, like any other man.

But my face would still tell the truth of the tale. I would always be separate, an _other. _I was marked. No matter how many identification cards I carried, no matter how many town-hall meetings I attended, I would still be a stranger in their midst. The masked man, the strange one. And the idea did not torment me. I had no longing to join the unwashed throngs. Why did it matter so much that I pursue that name and number; that stupid piece of paper that made official my humanity?

_Because there might be other Nadirs,_ my mind interjected. _There might be_ _others who_ _would _hear_ before they _saw_…_

But I had to do this thing first. If I were to _be_, without a false identity, without lies and deception that would only bring trouble, I had to do this. The vision began to take shape in my mind. Christine would be with me. We would ascend the stairs of her brownstone on the Upper West Side, and ring the doorbell. She would open the door…and…

But the picture of her in my mind was the death of the vision. I could only remember her young, pretty face, twisted in horrified disgust.

The woman at the door would no longer be young and pretty. She would be old and frail. Her hair would be thin and grey. She would, perhaps, be bent and shriveled. Madeline loomed so large in memory – but I had been a mere child. Her hands…

_Second_ violinist? My _mother_?

Her hands would be gnarled and bony, arthritic. But they would still have grace, I was sure.

Her eyes…

Suddenly I stood, wincing when my book hit the floor with the sound of rumpling pages. I raced through the house to the room that held the computer Nadir brought with him. Normally, I avoided the vile thing, but this urgency superseded my hatred of modern technology. Nadir and Christine huddled over it, blocking the screen and murmuring to each other.

"Let me see her." It was the Voice of the Gods, bouncing powerfully off walls and ceiling. I had not intended to speak so, but there it was.

Christine jumped back, but Nadir rose slowly. I advanced on the screen as though it were a venomous snake. The picture there was a black and white newspaper photograph showing several musicians, but I knew _her_ immediately. Haughty and straight with a lifted chin, she stood holding her violin cradled in one arm, her bow dangling from the other hand. Madeline Valliere may have aged, but she'd lost none of her essential arrogance.

I stood there, staring at the woman who'd set me upon a life of misery and suffering. I stood there and felt…

Nothing.

ℓ _A/N: Of course she's not IRL, but it seemed fitting. _


	60. The Brownstone

To look at one's mother and feel nothing is a surreal experience. I know the feelings popularly attributed to mothers: love, loyalty, hatred, confusion, etc… I knew that one is expected to feel _something,_ be it good or bad. Instead, I found myself studying her as I might study any 'mark.' I noted her obvious characteristics, her height, her apparent intelligence and so forth. The notion that this was my mother, the person who fed me, clothed me, beat me, and eventually turned me out seemed entirely disconnected from her person. This grey haired woman was a stranger to me.

Do not make pitying noises. Considering our history and my choices of feeling, it is good that what I felt was nothing.

This made it easier to do what must be done. It was so much simpler to imagine that I was going to see a contact about a favor. So thinking, I was able to get in Christine's car (with a small portion of her tour earnings, she'd finally been able to buy the hybrid she so desired) and drive towards the East without too much disturbance of mind.

Christine was not nearly so dispassionate. She had already developed a deep and abiding abhorrence of Madeline. As a consequence, she referred to her only as "that woman," which served to enhance my dissociation. Christine's plan, which she confided to me halfway there and I promptly vetoed, was to hand Madeline a twenty dollar bill. Symbolically, she said, she would be buying my way back home. I told her that I _had_ a home, thank you very much.

This compelled her to take one hand off the wheel (a practice which causes me great discomfort) and snake her arm around my neck. I believe her smile lasted through the whole of northern Ohio.

Our drive was long, excessively so. Yes, we talked, and I did manage to snatch a bit of sleep now and then, but there were stops for refueling, for food (may I never see another fast food menu as long as I live), and for breaks to refresh stiff elderly limbs. At every stop, there were people. Gawking, gap-toothed women in shapeless muumuus and their sticky, wide-eyed, rotund brats stared from shop windows and car windows and parking lots. Sunburned men in stained workmens' uniforms gave me blatantly cold glares. Teenagers – spare me – in all manner of revealing and slovenly dress openly pointed, laughed and mocked. If I had a moment's peace for every time I heard some version of "Dude! Where's the party?" I'd be in Nirvana.

Christine was not the least disturbed by the attention I garnered. Heavens, no. She just smiled into my seething face and told me, "They're just curious," or "They're just kids." She had indefatigable patience for these, the flotsam and jetsam of this country. Of course, _she _was not the center of their attention. Since we visited no cultural venues along the way, she remained unrecognized. It seems that the majority of Americans have no taste for La Belle Musique.

Who knew?

When we finally reached The Island, that changed. Dramatically. I was astounded and infinitely pleased to see Christine's face smiling angelically over downtown New York. Her next tour date there was rapidly approaching. She had to lock her doors and roll her window up because admirers constantly caught up with us in the painful traffic jams that clog the motorways of New York. They knocked on the glass shamelessly, pressing various scraps of paper up against the windshield, begging for an autograph. She looked at me pleadingly, but I folded my arms and gave her her own wise advice,

"Never mind them, dearest, they're only _curious. _They're just your fans…"

Of course, in the carefully Bohemian but very much upper-crust Upper West Side, things changed for the better. It would be seen as quite gauche to be caught thumping a windshield here. Still, the glances and raised eyebrows told the true story. They saw my Christine, they _knew_ my Christine, and they would report the sighting to their friends and families with excited tones and gestures. For her part, Christine carefully studied the road ahead of her and muttered about my inability to "take a damned plan like anybody else" and having to drive "across the freakin' country."

But I think she was pleased, too.

But eventually, we arrived. She parked the car in a grotesquely overpriced garage and we sat there, silent, for nearly half an hour. The emotional void of several days before was collapsing – nature abhors a vacuum. I felt _small_; it seemed that if I spoke, my words would breathily carry a three-year-old's lisp.

And I was afraid.

The fear was as natural and gigantic as Kilimanjaro. I'd avoided traps in the past simply by _sensing_ them; I had an uncanny sixth sense that screamed, "Danger, danger!" It was howling now.

_Don't be a fool!_ I chided myself. _She's geriatric! You could snap her neck with one hand while tapping out a merry tune with the other…_

But it was not necessarily a physical danger I faced, now. This hurdle could not be crossed with violence or money. And there were too many variables, too many possibilities.

What if she hated me as fiercely as she had then and flatly refused to help?

What if she politely invited me in for a cup of tea?

What if she broke down in tears and begged my forgiveness?

What if she looked at me blankly and said, "What son?"

"Erik?"

I snapped out of my black reverie with a jolt. Christine stood beside me, holding my door open.

"All aboard what's goin' aboard," she whispered, and offered her hand. I took it gratefully, needing the emotional lift more than the physical. The sensation was strange, and I looked down to see what was wrong.

For the first time in months, I was touching her with my gloves on. I was dressed to the nines for this occasion: gloves, tux, mask, and hat all in ceremonial black and white. Her eyes followed mine, and she smiled a gentle, sad smile. She surveyed the silent garage and turned back to me, lifting my mask just enough to touch my cheek and press a kiss to my mouth.

"You'll be fine. Just don't, you know, kill anyone."

She squeezed my hand and I found I could smile back at her.

We slowly walked the well-kept sidewalks until we found the address we sought. Three stone steps took us to the narrow, ornate doorway and its ancient buzzer. I stared at said buzzer nearly five minutes before I could press it, and once my finger did the deed I instantly wished to go back in time.

Soon, too soon, we heard firm footfalls clacking stolidly towards the door.


	61. Tea

The door opened with theatrical slowness to reveal an older, slightly more wrinkled, still ramrod-straight Madeline Valliere. She was small – startlingly so to me – standing just a few inches over five feet, with a slender build that complimented her prim, elegant stance. She wore a conservative navy blue silk dress, clearly tailor-made. On her feet were the sensible shoes we'd heard; brown, low-heeled and utterly tasteful. Her grey hair was upswept and neatly coiled into a bun, not one hair out of place. She was so very different from the ghost-mother of my memories!

But her eyes were the same; she peered up at me with same arrogant, dismissive air I remembered from my childhood.

"May I help you?" she asked, in a tone that clearly stated, _Who are you, what do you want, and how may I most quickly be rid of you?_

I stepped back involuntarily; hearing her voice was most powerful of all. Oh, that voice! I wanted to cover my ears and duck my head. That voice meant pain and shame and punishment. I could not respond coherently; memories flooded my head and fogged my thoughts.

Fortunately, when I stepped back, I revealed Christine, who was standing close behind me. Madeline's eyes lost their suspicious gleam and brightened.

"What a pleasant surprise," she purred, extending a slightly bony, wrinkled (yet perfectly graceful and strong) hand. "The Great Diva, goddess of the stage, such an honor to meet you. Do come in and bring your…bodyguard?...with you."

The color drained from Christine's face as though someone had pulled a plug. To her credit, she did take Madeline's hand and give it a gracious shake without any outward expression of loathing, save for her sheet-white cheeks.

"Why…why, thank you, Mrs. Valliere."

We followed her through a small, well-appointed foyer, down a long hall decorated with delicate Victorian watercolors and various awards in a range of languages. There were also photographs: a stern, gaunt man who could only have been my father, dressed in dark suits posing with a series of Bohemian artists and their works, group photographs of orchestras, photographs of a pretty little girl turning into a lovely young woman – always posed with my mother or my father, and always impeccably dressed.

Finally, we reached a delightful sitting room, as prim and tasteful as the lady who inhabited it. Against one wall there was an elaborately carved table upon which lay a violin case. We were invited to sit down on a brown leather sofa in front of a low glass-top coffee table, upon which were spread several scores. My eyes were arrested as I recognized the opening notes of the one on top – it was one of mine.

"Would you care for coffee? Tea?" She was clearly addressing Christine.

"I would hate to trouble you…"

"Oh, it isn't the least bit of trouble. Really. I'll just have Maria bring out some tea and cakes."

She disappeared through another door. Christine turned her bewildered gaze to me. I nodded towards the music on the table. Her upper lip curled in an amused smirk. She mouthed something that I didn't catch. I shook my head and she repeated more slowly,

"_YOU…WIN."_

Then Madeline was back, and we were stiffly polite once again.

"Now, I do hope you are comfortable. May I ask to what I owe the pleasure of this surprise visit, Miss Daae?"

"To be honest, Mrs. Valliere, I am not visiting on my behalf."

Here it came…should I wait? No.

"She has come with me." Can you fault me if I added a bit of power to my voice? If I exaggerated my single gift for the purpose of first impressions?

Madeline turned her eyes my way, but continued to address herself to Christine.

"You have come on behalf of your bodyguard? He wished to meet me? That's very sweet, but really, my dear, you could have phoned ahead."

"Erik is not my bodyguard." Christine placed her hand on my knee in a sweet, familiar gesture that nearly calmed the mad thumping of my heart. "He is my fiancé."

Oh, now we had her full attention. The mask, the name; I saw everything coming together in her steadily widening eyes.

At that moment, a young Latina woman came into the room bearing a tray. She silently let it on the clear portion of the coffee table, dropped a half-hearted curtsy, and left. Christine reached down and took a cup, pouring tea and adding sugar and cream quite calmly. I suppose she had found her place in this weird scene, and had decided to make herself comfortable. For the rest of us, the awkward moment dragged on.

"And your son," I interjected, feeling that someone needed to make that point clear.

More silence followed my announcement. Madeline also took a cup, disclosing her state of mind only in the slightest tremor of her hand – or perhaps that was only her age. She deliberately poured tea and added a sprinkle of sugar and a dollop of cream.

"Well, then. It appears you've done well for yourself," she said, at last. "You must be the Prima Donna's paramour who haunts every tale surrounding Miss Daae. The brilliant, unnamed composer who appeared suddenly from the blackness of obscurity and who never comes forth to take credit for his work." And then she delivered the cut I knew was coming, "No wonder you've been kept so well under wraps."

"So you _do_ remember me."

"How could I forget." She sipped her tea. "Where have you been all these years?"

"Here and there. Most recently, I've built a symphony hall and developed the lovely Miss Daae's Voice. And I've released a few works of my own; I see you've discovered at least one of them."

Madeline glanced down at the score.

"Yes. It is a challenging piece, but beautiful. I am still working out some sticky points." She delivered this compliment in the same blasé tone she might have used to announce the weather. "What possessed you to write it to tangle your musicians' fingers? If you wish your work played, it must at least be playable."

"It is playable enough." I retorted, comfortable in this unemotional, sterile tone. "Shall I play it for you?"

A dismissive wave of the hand granted permission. I opened her violin case and lifted her instrument, noting its craftsmanship and delicate weight. It had been maintained recently; the bow was well rosined, if slightly frayed.

Madeline lifted the sheet music in invitation, to which I shook my head. Without concern for the sensibilities of my audience, I removed my gloves. Her little hiss of displeasure fell on unsympathetic ears. I set the violin to my chin and the bow to the strings. Closing my eyes, I invited the music to flow through me. I knew the tone and tenor of each note before it left the strings. Cold Madeline and her perfectly tasteful house fell away; I was inside the reality I desired.

Of course, all such things must end. I returned to earth and set the violin back in its case. My audience of two sat rapt, leaning forward in their chairs, subject to the spell I never failed to weave. Christine's face was easy enough to read; she has never tried to cover her emotions. Pleasure and pride lit every feature.

Madeline still wore her prim mask. I looked to her eyes for more, but I was too late. Any emotion there was carefully locked away; all I saw were doors slamming shut.


	62. Documents

Documents

**Documents**

"You do have some talent." She started to sip her tea, then grimaced at its tepidness and replaced her cup on its saucer.

"Some," I agreed.

Then began a silence accentuated by the grand tick-tock of a grandfather clock and our breathing. Christine looked from me to my mother and back. She chewed her lower lip and changed position in the stiff, Victorian chair she occupied.

"You must realize this is not a social visit," she blurted. "We haven't come for a cup of tea."

My mother turned her steely, polite gaze to Christine and raised one eyebrow.

"Erik needs his social security number. His birth certificate."

"Why, whatever for?" Madeline rang a small silver bell to summon her maid, who swiftly removed the tray and cold cups of tea. I saw her reclaim a sense of power. She had something I needed.

"It is hardly your concern, _mother_." Had I a nose, I would have pinched the bridge of it in frustration. As it was, I looked to Christine, pleading with my eyes for permission to make just _one last kill_. She gave her head one abrupt shake and I sighed. "Simply give me what I ask for, and we will be gone."

"You haven't a social security number. Why in heaven do you think I would have applied for one?"

That stopped me cold. Why should she have?

"But his birth certificate?" urged Christine.

Madeline crossed her ankles primly and pursed her lips. When she spoke, I realized the depth of her mortification for having borne such a monster.

"And if I give this to you, what is to keep you from linking yourself to me? I assure you that this is not a desirable outcome."

Christine was on her feet, eyes flashing and teeth bared. Had I not stood and taken her by the arm, I believe she would have leapt upon my elderly mother and shredded her. Rage had thoroughly choked my darling; she could scarcely sputter her indignation. I, on the other hand, remained calm.

"Neither do I desire any such thing." I cast a contemptuous glance at her home. How empty, how bare, how perfectly common it seemed. No – this woman had nothing to offer me. She never had. "But I will have my birth certificate. Christine will have her husband. So go, Madame, and bring what we ask."

She did not stir. She only bent her wrinkled lips into a sort of smile, enjoying the power she believed she had over me. I suppose she felt I had greatly wronged her in being born and in not dying, and this was her last jab – her final revenge. I knew my mother's weakness.

I strode to the curbside window and pulled back her tasteful satin curtains. With a smile as humorless and bloodless as I could summon, I reached up – and removed my hat.

Madeline's fingers tightened on the arms of her chair. She leaned forward and her face contorted into an expression of horror.

"You dare..." she began.

My smile widened. She was not the only one who could enjoy another's torment.

"My documents, if you will."

She stood slowly – too slowly for my satisfaction. I reached back and began to untie my mask. Ah! That cut her pride. I was visible to any passerby, and she had no doubt gone to great lengths to make her residence here known; the neighborhood was highly desirable. .

"Erik!" Her shriek brought Maria running. By then, my face was bare. Poor girl! She pressed her knuckles to her mouth and backed silently out of the room. We all heard the scrape of something heavy being dragged in front of the door.

"The longer you delay, _mother_, the longer I stand here for all your neighbors to see. Imagine the scandal! I would hurry, if I were you."

That old woman disappeared up the stairs so fast, it would have been impressive in a woman a decade younger. I listened with delight to her sensible shoes thumping on the stairs, along a hallway…further.

"You have 10 minutes," I cautioned her. "Until then I shall face inwards – after 10 minutes, I will face the window. I might even go on the front stoop for some sunshine!"

In the meantime, Christine had overcome her shock and started towards me. Oh, how flawed my plan was! My little trick might scandalize my mother's staid neighbors and cause her some discomfort, but for Christine to be seen with me in all my horrific glory – that could very well end her career in a tabloid flash.

"Christine, love, stay away. If they see you with me…like this…"

But I was a fool to think I could stop her. When had my admonitions ever changed her course of action? No, of course she paid me no heed. She walked to my side and looped her arms around my neck. The pain I knew I ought to be feeling at this entirely humiliating scene hazed her loving eyes.

She whispered in my ear, her voice harsh with an emotion I could not label. "Will it never stop, Erik? Does the world have to punish you at every turn? Do you have to _help_ it?"

How absurd this all was! I grinned wryly and hummed a few notes of Wagner's "Bridal Chorus." She shot me a withering glare, and then pulled me closer. Madeline returned shortly thereafter, pointedly averting her eyes. She thrust a small rosewood box at Christine, who snatched it and backed away.

"Let's get out of here, Erik. Please." Her tone was solemn, her eyes locked murderously (_murderously?_) on my mothers face.

I nodded and began to replace the mask, when a sudden whim gripped me. I looked at my mother. I had no idea what motherhood could be, but I knew that _this_ was not it. Of all relationships immortalized in song, that of mother and child was the most sacred, the most revered. I wanted to feel that sweetness, just for a moment. I wanted my mother to gaze at me in that soft way the Madonna gazed at her child: the way I'd seen many mothers regard their children, small and grown. Again, I shrank in my own perception. I was small, vulnerable, and wanted nothing more than to have my mother show me one drop of affection.

Anything.

And she stood there, staring at me, mirroring Christine's desire that we simply _get out_, out of her house and out of her sight. I was being thrown away again, even now that I had shown her how I followed in her footsteps. That wounded me to the quick. She did not necessarily have to love _me_, but some hidden hollow of my ravaged spirit wanted her to at least love my music and take some familial pride in my talent.

What a twisted place my mind can be…

"Mother," I said, without a hint of irony, and to the utter discomfiture of both women "may I have a kiss?"

I dropped to my knees in front of her without pride and without bitterness. To this day, I do not know what gripped me; I only know that I suddenly lost all connection with my ego, with the man I thought I'd become.

They stared. I don't believe they breathed. I lowered my eyes to the floor where my mask lay, and waited. Only the clock commented.

"_Tick._"it solemnly intoned. "_Tock._"

"Please," my whisper interrupted the clock, which graciously ignored my incivility.

"And then you will leave?" Madeline sounded her age. She sounded as though she were strangling. I'm sure that pleased Christine. "Leave and never come back?"

"I swear."

"_Tick._"

"_Tock._"

I saw the hem of her navy blue skirt approach and smelled the dry scent of lilac. It was an old-woman smell, a perfectly human smell. She was making a low noise in her throat, which I had heard before – when one of the ballet corps saw a spider crawling nearby. I only waited, numbly kneeling. The floor was hard; my knees ached.

"_Tick._"

"_Tock._"

Suddenly, she bent, her knees popping with the effort. I felt dry, hard lips brush my temple and felt the hot exhale of her breath stir my pathetic strings of hair. Then she was gone.

"_Tick._"

"_Tock._"

Christine's gentle hands gripped mine and urged me to my feet. I replaced my mask and hat mechanically, while she steered me out the door and to the car. If there were passersby, I did not see them.

It was nearly a full day before I spoke again.


	63. It's the Why

**It's the Why**

For much of the long drive home, Christine did her level best to engage me in a discussion about my inexplicable, baffling behavior. I might as well have been in another car for all the answer she received. Even if my mind had not been trapped in a chaotic dance with itself, I would not have known how to answer her.

"Why did you _do_ that?" she was asking. "Why did you get on your knees like that? And to _her_."

Her tone told me that I should be utterly ashamed of myself for falling down to that level, for kneeling to a woman who would just as soon have seen me dead.

Maybe she has a point.

But maybe not.

As I knelt there, I was being torn into pieces – I despised the woman; she'd been nothing but a gaping wound in my psyche for years, and yet... By abasing myself, by humbling myself before my enemy, I'd finally gotten the one small thing I'd ever asked of her. One thing I had learned from my Renaissance at the hands of Christine and Nadir was that power lay as often in weakness and submission as in strength.

Was that it?

Or was I an abused and abandoned dog, begging one bit of praise from Master? One sign that I'd ever meant anything to her, solely for being her offspring and for no other reason …

I don't know.

My patient listener, I have never seen the woman again. She is likely dead now, or doddering in a rest home. It is irrelevant whether or not I triumphed over her or ultimately ceded mastery to her. The longer I live, the less it matters. The _Why_ is what matters. And I still cannot answer you that.

I did what I did, and I cannot undo it, so there it stands.

My only concern was that Christine had what she wanted – proof of my ultimate humanity. Proof of my existence as something other than a Phantom and a murderer. Even I had to marvel at that. Here was proof that I'd been born; that I'd once been a tiny infant with no bloody past, no madness, and no stain on my soul. I had been an innocent, once.

When I finally gathered my faculties together enough to speak, I took Christine's hand and said, "Angel, are you satisfied?"

She merely cocked an eyebrow and said, "Are we married?"

She applied for my social security number – I only signed the papers – and as soon as my card arrived, she began talking about The Wedding.

"You've already written it. And I know it by heart, now. So all we have to do is perform it. With an officiator."

"But…"

"We even have a venue. Right here. And management is at your whim – have them decorate it for us. Have them advertise."

"But…"

"We even have our bridal clothes…"

"But _why_, Christine?! Why must this be such a production? Why the stage? Why the audience?" I was getting more worked up as a disastrous future built itself clearly in my mind. "And when I am found out someday – what then? When I am revealed to the world and your career fades behind the sensationalism of the monster you married? Why are you so damnably eager to _publicly_ bind yourself to me?"

She stared at me, her face flushed and her eyes flashing dangerously.

"Then we'll both jump down the nearest rabbit-hole and fade into obscurity." Christine grabbed my lapels and gave me a little shove, as if inviting me to physical combat. "It _pisses me off_ when you call yourself a monster – and where the _hell_ do you get off implying my success is entirely dependent on _you_ anymore? It's _my_ career and if it fails, it is because _I_ slacked off. I _hate_ that you hide yourself. I _hate _that your name did not appear on the playbills when we performed together."

She had loosed my jacket and was gesticulating angrily, actually slapping one hand with the other as she snarled at me. I had seen her temper before, but this…this wasn't quite temper. It was an obsidian dagger crafted of love and frustration.

"I'm _proud _of you, you jack-ass!" She dragged me down into the empty opera house and over to a window. "If you and Nadir did not have me so convinced that being recognized in public would lead to your fast and nasty death, I'd be perfectly happy taking a stroll down Main Street with you, even if all you wore was a shirt and shorts. And if everyone we passed stared and jeered, I'd _still_ be proud of you. And what _if_ you are '_found out'_? So? If your old friends didn't hunt you down and kill you, your face _might_ be in the papers for a week or two, tops, - and only if they somehow found out that you were The Composer, Erik - and your story would be just as quickly assimilated into the American media zoo, no more sensational than any other story."

Before she delivered her coup de grace, I was already reeling with her words. She was implying – no, she was flat out _asserting_ – that my deformity was ultimately unimportant in the eyes of my fellow man. But that couldn't be, because if that were so, I really had no excuse for…for anything I'd done. But she'd been correct before: about who I truly was when I no longer knew, about my work being played, about her ability to love me…

"_Get over yourself_, why don't you?" she finished abruptly, and stomped off to our apartments.

I was left at the window, behind the double panes of glass, staring out into the twilight-quiet streets. What would happen if I did walk out there, in a shirt and shorts (not that I owned any shorts)? I watched a few people wander past, intent on their private missions, looking neither right nor left.

My hand roamed my mask, feeling its solidity. I had thought I hated the thing as she did, but now I doubted.

Could I take it off?

Yes, it was off.

Could I open the doors?

Easily enough, since I had the keys.

But could I step through the portal into that softening light that was more than half shadow? My hat would conceal most of my face; I could at least reach the top of the massive marble staircase…

And there I stopped. The wind was cool on my face; the soft evening air was soothing. A curious surge of adrenalin tingled in every limb. The "porch" of the opera house was well above the sidewalk, above the straggling passersby. _A king among men, _I thought, _I could have been…_

A woman glanced up, saw me, and walked on without even slowing her pace.

Get over myself, indeed.

Suddenly conscious of my expectation that the city – no, the World - should cease its buzz and flutter at my emergence, I felt utterly ridiculous. Billions of men on the planet, and I had the arrogance to consider myself at risk of their undivided attention. Of course, as one more silhouette, I hardly merited their notice.

What if I descended to stand among them? What if I eschewed hat and cloak? Could I stroll to the coffee shop one block away and enjoy a cup of tea? Could I nod 'good evenings' to those I met on the way?

I slowly removed my fedora and stepped onto the top step. Below me, an old man, dressed in the rags typical of the homeless, and swaying unsteadily, happened to glance up. He froze. I froze. His eyes widened, his mouth opened…and I retreated into the opera house, locking the heavy, iron-bound doors tightly behind me.


	64. Endings

No, I never made it to the corner coffee shop bare-faced. Not to this day have I even attempted such a thing.

Since earliest memory, _my deformity_ had been the center of my universe and the hobgoblin on which I hung every ounce of blame for my miseries and misfortunes. I had no other focus, no other fault, no other weakness. In other words, in my own mind, I was a perfect man in an imperfect suit. A murderer? Certainly, but only because of my ill-fitting suit!

Christine forced me to see past _my deformity_, to see that the inner man was entirely human. She thrust my humanity upon me, and insisted I claim all the rights and responsibilities which go therewith.

And that is true: I am human.

But neither is the complete story, and that is where my Angel is mistaken. (I hesitate to say 'wrong.')

Before her, I lived entirely within my deformity. With her, I lived (and continue to live) entirely without my deformity. With the rest of my life, I must live in the grey area between.

I am a man. I am becoming a better man than I was, and I am learning to let go of my excuses and accept responsibility for the wrongs I have done – as painful as that process is. Of course, I am also learning to take responsibility for my good works as well, and that is equally difficult. I am accepting my humanity and becoming more natural within it.

But I am also deformed. And that _does_ have implications for my life. I will _never _be able to walk down Main Street in a shirt and shorts without harassment. I will _never_ be able to comfortably order a tea and bagel from a coffee shop with my face bare. I will always be an abomination in the eyes of strangers, if their eyes are punished with the sight of my natural face.

Any black man will tell you that, no matter his station in life, there will always be white women who clutch their purses a little tighter at his approach. The police will always search his car a little more thoroughly, and the school will always see his children as just a little more stupid. Denying that he is black and asserting his essential humanity will not change the reactions of his fellow men. He must take their reactions into consideration before every action.

I, too, am bound in my flesh and bound to the perceptions of those around me. Christine rails against this because she _is_ an earthly angel. She wants so badly for me to be a man like any other, that her expectations of those in the "any other" category are as unrealistically positive as mine have been negative.

It is good that I can go about freely in my own home. It is also right that I cover my face in public.

Which is why I told her that I could not marry her onstage. She raged, she wept, she threw an unholy tantrum and refused to speak to me for nearly a week, but eventually she saw reason and relented.

Oh, we were married, of course. We sang our parts in our apartment, attended only by Nadir and an old, blind minister. I was married in a tuxedo without mask or hat, and this pleased my wife no end. Poor Nadir forced himself to watch, but I know he spent more time looking at the bride than the groom - and who could fault him?

We have lived quietly in marital bliss all the long years – I behind the curtains, she in the lime-light. I assure you that I am quite at peace with this arrangement. Besides, my fame has grown in its own right. Do I not own the most renowned opera house in the world? Are my works not considered the gold standard of modern musical achievement?

You sit there expecting more, but there really is no more to tell. This is the first interview I have ever granted a member of the press – I have no doubt you shall win kudos for your work in acquiring an audience with me.

You still wish to see me sans mask? You think you would be one of the few who could stand, unaffected, and look upon my face? Perhaps you could. But then what would happen to this delightful biography you've sworn to write? Would it be about Erik? Or would it be about Erik's face? No, I think we'll let this remain a mystery. I want to be remembered…

But here is my lovely wife, fresh from the stage. Perhaps, in exchange for my remaining masked, you would enjoy a short interview with her as well?

It is agreed then. I will leave you two alone together.


	65. He Was Loved

**He Was Loved**

Take a good long look as he walks away and remember it well. It's the last time anyone outside the family is likely to see him.

He's dying, you know.

We don't know how fast, because he will have no physician but Nadir (who isn't truly a doctor at all), but we do know he hasn't too much more time. Some days are better, like today, and he can do most of the things he enjoys. Some days, though, he has spells of weakness, and he cannot even sing. And as time goes by, there are more bad days than good.

I am going to miss him dreadfully. He tells me that he is satisfied with his life – and he keeps reassuring me that this is the best possible way it could turn out. He knows I will not leave him; he will not die alone. In fact, I rarely leave his side anymore. There were times, he tells me, when he slept in a coffin so that if he died, he would still have a proper "burial." Morbid, huh? But I will be there when he dies; he's asked only that I sing to him and hold his hand to ease his passing.

Never mind me; I'll cry at the drop of a hat these days.

These are the times I most regret never having had children with him, but he has always been so terrified that the baby might look like him that he would never risk it. His position is that even considering his fathering a child is a form of child abuse. Now he and I are both too old to do anything about it, and I suppose it may be for the better. Until Erik began to have his bad spells, I spent so much time touring that our child would never have known her mother anyway, and I have never thought of Erik as the fathering type.

Now I almost regret my time touring, too.

I wonder what he told you about me…?

Take everything he has said about me with at least six grains of salt; I'm not nearly as clever or wise as he has probably made me out to be. I'm sure he glossed over every fault and painted me in the rosiest hues. No woman ever had a more devoted husband, or a more tender lover.

It would be the height of disrespect to give details, but Erik did learn to make love to me without fear and without self-disgust - and since I taught him all he ever knew, I was never less than satisfied.

What more do you wish to know?

What does he look like? I'm hardly the one to ask – don't laugh! It has been years – nearly 20! - since I truly _saw_ him as any person on the street would. When I look at him, all I can see is his music. And not only the music he writes... There's a music in everything he does, everything he says. He teases me mercilessly when I say it, but he's the most beautiful man in the world, for all he's so terrible to look at. I've got some pictures of him, taken by surprise and stealth, but they will never be available for publication – at least while I live, and I am feeling very healthy just now.

But…well…he _is_ frightening to look at, if you aren't prepared for what you will see. It's as though nature simply forgot to finish him. Or…the way he jokes about it, he likes to say that he'll be a few weeks ahead on the decomposing process. Maybe that's more accurate. Let's not…let's not dwell on that just now.

What happened to Raoul? Oh dear... that _is_ a funny story. Raoul married some sweet little thing from his church. They have two children (nearly grown, now), a cat, a dog, and a lovely house in Northern Vermont. Of course, I've kept up with him – we really are very good friends. Erik will never speak his name, though. He prefers to pretend that Raoul disappeared in a puff of money, I suppose. But we are active pen-pals, and I used to drop by and visit when I could. He is a good man, and a good friend.

No, I think I would have been perfectly miserable with him.

Any more works? Yes, just like Mozart, Erik is trying to finish his Requiem. He has made me swear that if he does not finish it before he dies, I will destroy it. Of course, there are some vows that were simply made to be broken. If he…doesn't complete it…I will.

I'm so glad Erik finally let someone come and talk with him. He deserves to be known beyond the rumors and the whispering. I was worried he might…run out of time before he got his story out. I'm sure I would do the best I could, but I'm no writer. Besides, I'd be tempted to make him out to be a saint, and that would take talent beyond my wildest dreams.

I feel certain that you will tell the truth – at least the truth that Erik gave you. Only make sure the world knows this: Erik loved, and was loved.

**the end**

_A/N: What about those fluffy chapters!? Well, they are part of my next project. Never fear – I had too much fun writing them to abandon them. _

_P.S. – because I replaced those chapters, anyone who had reviewed those chapters will be unable to post a review to these new ones. That doesn't mean I don't want them! I'm a dreadful review whore! I've worked harder and longer on this piece than on any of the others, so let me know what you thought of it by instant message, if you will. Thanks!_


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